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we   rejoice   therqat,    for    ha  mj^b  >--•- 

Edna  Dean  Proctor's  Poetry 

The    Complete    P.etical    WorV:.'^    of    Edna   Dean 
Proctor.     Boston:  Houghton     Mifflin  Company. 

A  FEW  years  ago  everyone  had  a  bound 
volume  of  Miss  Proctor's  poems  on 
the  parlor  table,  and  a  complete  e<li- 
tion,  pleasantly  bound  and  illustrated  with 
a  picture  of  the  author,  will  revive  old 
memories,  personal  and  national.  She  was 
a  great  patriot.  Her  Civil  War  poems  are 
full  of  the  excitement  and  high  ideals  of 
the  period,  the  best  being  the  one  on  the 
death  of  John  Brown.  ^^ 

Then  there  are  the  verses  to  "Columbia, 
in  various  combinations,  and  to  New  Hamp- 
shire,  which  she   loved   so   dearly: 
Where    the    great    Stone-Face    looms    changeless, 
calm 
\  As   the   Sphinx    that   couches   on    Egypt's   sands. 
And   the   fir   and  the   sassafras  yield   their  balm 
Sweet    as    the    odors    of    morning-lands 
to    the   Indians,   especially   the    well-known 
"Song    of    the    Ancient    People,"    with    its  j 
haunting    refrain:  i 

For   we   are   the   Ancient   People, 

Born    with   the    wind   and    rain.  | 

to  Spanish  America,  with  its  "6'ells  of 
Spain  that  marlc  the  hour"  ;  to  fair  scenes 
all  over  the  earth,  for  she  was  an  in- 
vfterate  traveler— Russia,  America,  the 
East ;  to  Christmas  and  Easter,  and  many 
more  Thev  are  full  of  the  gentle  spirit 
that  marked  great  ladies  once,  though  they 
"bear  no  crown  upon  their  brow,  and  boast 
no  lineage  royal."  of  a  bright  love  of. 
country  which  we  miss  i« /his  time  /. 
Engliehistic  deprecation  of  the  Ameri/// 
Scene,"  and  of  a  delicate  beauty  ^y^V/s-J 
awaken  old  sensations  and  new  Amt- o^y 
pride. 


/ 


NATIONAL  POEMS. 


^^^^ 


Their  armor  rinijs  on  a  fairer  field 

Thau  tlie  Greek  a:id  the  Trojan  fiercely  trod, 
For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they  wield, 

And  the  light  above  is  the  smile  of  God. 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away ; 
For  the  Heroes  live,  and  the  sky  is  bright, 

And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day. 


POEMS 


EDNA  DEAN  PKOCTOK 


NEW  YORK: 

PUBLISHED   BY   HURD   AND   HOUGHTON. 

BOSTON:   E.   P.   BUTTON  AND  COMPANY. 

1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

Kurd  and  Hocghton, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 

Southern  District  of  New  York. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAJrBRIDOE  : 

STEREOTYPED     AND    PRINTED     BT 

H.    0.    HOUGUTOX    AND    COMPANT. 


CONTENTS. 


NATIONAL  POEMS. 

PAGE 

The  Mississippi 3 

Hyjin  for  the  Nation 15 

Harvest  and  Liberty.  .  /!^^C.  .  y.-f.":'\-.-l. 17 

The  Strifes  axi>  the  Stars 21 

Compromise 24 

Who  's  Ready 27 

By  the  Shenandoah 30 

The  Hundred  Days'  Men 35 

Kearsarge 38 

At  Home 42 

The  Grave  of  Lincoln 46 

Heroes 49 

The  Virginia  Scaffold 51 

The  White  Slaves 54 

The  Slave  Sale 59 

For  Freedom 66 

Chimes  of  Noon 69 

jhscellaneous  poems. 

Consummation 75 

Clouds 77 

Thy  Psyche 81 

The  Welcome  Sleep 84 

Indian  Summer 83 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Prayer  in  the  Desert 00 

On  the  Lawn 94 

Take  Heart TOO 

In  Dreams 101 

Daily  Dying 103 

The  Wind  in  the  Pine 105 

Heart-Deaths 110 

A  Summer  Day Ill 

The  Bluebird 113 

Allan ^ 115 

Heaven,  0  Lord,  I  cannot  lose 118 

Night-fall 121 

The  Bird  at  Greenwood 122 

Trust 125 

Winthrop  Earl 127 

The  Priest  and  I 128 

Robert  Burns 131 

The  Evening  Angel 1 33 

The  Prisoner's  Release 13^) 

When  I  am  Dead 139 


THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

.f^SgOWN  the  silent  Mississippi,  with  his 

I  i&K         saintly  soul  aflame, 

S'^'^^  Twice  a  hundred  years  are  numbered 
since  Marquette,  rejoicing,  came. 

All  the  winter  In  his  cabin  high  among  the 
Huron  snows, 

Gaining  lore  of  forest  hunters,  tracing  maps  by 
firelight  glows, 

Offering  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  morn  and  even- 
ing vow  and  prayer 

That  his  eyes  might  view  the  River  flowing 
*         southward  broad  and  fair,  — 

Wondrous  grace  !  upon  its  bosom,  glad  beneath 
the  summer  blue, 

Rapt  in  visions,  lost  in  praises,  lo !  he  guides 
his  light  canoe  ! 


Winding  'mid  the  wooded  islands  tangled  deep 
with  musky  vines ; 


4  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Flower-enchanted,  past  the  prairies  with  their 

dim  horizon  lines ; 
Bj  the  fierce  Missouri  water,  dark  in  gorge  and 

cataract  wiles, 
Down  from  nameless  regions  rolling,  restless, 

thrice  a  thousand  miles  ; 
Past  Ohio,  loveliest  river,  all  its  banks  aflush 

with  rose 
While  the  red -bud  tints  the  woodlands  and  the 

lavish  la\n-el  blows ; 
Bj  the  belts  of  odorous  cedar,   through    the 

cypress-swamps  below. 
Till  he  greets  its  wider  grandeur,  knows  the 

secret  of  its  flow  ; 
Fainting  then  from  summer  fervors,  homeward 

turns  in  sacred  awe, 
Djing  humbly  'mid  the  Ilurons  by  the  windy 

Mackinaw. 

Then  La  Salle,  impatient,  fearless,  took  the 
Father's  idle  oar. 

Longing  for  the  larger  splendor,  listening  for 
the  ocean  roar  ! 

Under  Bluffs  that  seek  the  beauty  of  the  upper 
shores  to  win ; 

Past  the  Arkansaw,  slow-drifting  with  its  moun- 
tain tribute  in ; 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  5 

By  the  bend  where  sad  De  Soto,  with  his  high 

Castilian  pride, 
Lulled  forever  and  lamented,  sleeps,  a  king, 

beneath  the  tide ; 
Through  the  forests,  perfume  -  haunted,  weird 

moss  waving  to  and  fro, 
(There  the  cottonwood  towers  stately,  and  the 

tall  magnolias  blow  !) 
Past  the  bayous,  still  and  sombre,  where  the 

alligator  swims. 
And  at  noonday,  on  the  shore,  the  paroquet  his 

plumage  trims ; 
Gliding   do^vn  by  green  savannas  —  ho  !    the 

wind  blows  cool  and  free  ! 
Bright,  beyond,  the  Gulf  is  gleaming  —  lo  !  the 

River  finds  the  Sea  ! 
Out  of  mystery,  out  of  silence,  now  the  mighty 

stream  is  won,  — 
Rear  the  cross,  O  joyful  Boatman !  chant  sweet 

hymns  at  set  of  sun  ! 

Ah,  La  Salle,  Marquette,  De  Soto !  boatmen 

bold  in  song  and  story. 
Lighting  up  the  river  romance  there  are  later 

deeds  of  glory. 
Lonely  was  the  stream,  the  forest,  as  ye  dropped, 

with  measured  calm, 


6  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Do^vn  to  golden  zones  of  summer  througli  the 

fresh  world's  breeze  and  balm  ;  — 
But  the  Indian,  silent  gating,  half  m  welcome, 

half  in  fear ; 
On  the  grassy  plains  the  bison,  in  the  dewy 

glades  the  deer  ; 
Not  a  sound  to  break  the  stillness  save  the  song 

of  woodland  bird, 
Or  the  panther's  cry  at  evening  from  the  cy- 
press thickets  heard  ; 
Or  the  eagle's   scream,  as   northward    to  his 

cooler  lakes  he  flew, 
Fainter  ringing  down  the  valley  till  he  faded  in 

the  blue. 
Twice  a  hundred  years  are  numbered,  and  the 

red  man  roams  no  more 
Through  the  green  aisles  of  the  forest,  —  by 

the  reedy,  open  shore  ; 
With  the  startled  deer  and  bison  he  has  fled 

before  the  bands 
That  your  fleet  canoes  have  followed  from  the 

wondering  father-lands. 
Now  a  people  build  its  borders ;  now  the  great 

fleets  hasten  down 
With  the  sheaves  of  many  a  prairie,  with  the 

wealth  of  many  a  town  ; 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  7 

Decks  piled  high  from  tropic  harvest  in  the 

warmer  realms  below,  — 
Rice  and  sugar  from  the  cane -fields,  and  the 

cotton's  downy  snow ; 
Laden  sea-craft  inland  sailing,  rafts  that  find 

the  current's  fall, 
Smoke  of  steamer,  call  of  pilot,  from  the  Gulf 

to  high  St.  Paul ; 
And  the  thronged,  exultant  River  is  a  nation's 

heart,  whose  hands 
Far  to  eastward,  far  to  westward,  touch  the 

shining  ocean  sands. 

Will  ye  trust  the  strange  recital,  —  tale  that 

only  fiend  should  tell  ? 
When  the  nation'' s  morn  was  fairest,  black  the 

night  of  Treason  fell  ! 
Traitors  claiming  all  the   Southland,  and  the 

River  once  so  free, 
Under  forts  and  frowning  ridges,  rolling,  alien, 

to  the  sea ! 
Freedom's  banner   madly  trampled,  and   the 

motto  flaunted  high, 
"  On   the    Slave   we  found   Dominion,  —  who 

shall  dare  our  right  deny  ?  " 


8  THE   MISSISSIPPI. 

God  of  Justice  !  hoAV  our  rally  rang  througli  all 

the  startled  air ! 
Million-voiced,  the  North  made  answer,  rising 

calm  and  strong  from  prayer  ! 
Caught  the  rifle,  clasped  the  sabre,  put  the 

pen,  the  ploughshare  by, — 
Fathers,    brothers,    surging    Southward   when 

they  heard  the  gathering  cry, 
Till,  from  green  Dakotah  uplands  to  the  rocky 

isles  of  Maine, 
Every  hamlet,  every  city,  lent  its  bravest  to 

the  ti-ain  ; 
Freedom's  flag  above  them  waving,  freedom's 

songs  triumphant  sung, 
Ne'er,  I  ween,  to  such  an  army,  foe  the  gage 

of  battle  flung. 

Then  they  saw  the  captive  River,  and  from 
every  port  and  bay 

Summoned  straight  each  armed  vessel  that  at 
anchor  watching  lay  ;  — 

From  Pacific  ;  from  the  islands  where  the  spice- 
winds  softly  blow ; 

Oflf  the  sultry  Afric  border ;  shores  where  Eu- 
rope's olives  grow. 

All  too  few ;  —  in  hill-side  pastures  'neath  the 
axe  the  stout  oaks  reel, 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  9 

Pines  of  Saginaw  and  Saco  hewn  for  masts  to 

meet  the  keel. 
Night  and  day  the  roaring  forges  shape  the 

anchor,  weld  the  chain, 
Round  the  ball,  and  cast  the  cannon :  O  their 

glows  shall  not  be  vain  ! 
Day  and  night  the  engines  labor,  hammers  ring 

and  shuttles  fly, 
Till  the  avenging  fleet  is  fashioned.  Southward 

set,  with  coloi-s  high. 
Homeward  come  the  eager  war-ships,  scattered 

wide  in  foreign  seas ; 
Past  the  Indies,  through  the  Gulf- way,  all  their 

canvas  to  the  breeze  ! 
Right  across  the  sandy  shallows,  up  the  channel 

broad  and  deep, — 
Hark !  their  cannon's  judgment  thunder  wa,kes 

the  traitor  city's  sleep  ! 
Moated  Jackson,  strong  St.  Philip  !  ye  were 

weak  and  powerless  then  ; 
Low  must  crumble  wall  and  bastion  had  ye 

thrice  ten  thousand  men. 
Ye  may  man  your  casemates  newly,  hurl  your 

shot  like  hellish  rain,  — 
Sweep  their  shells  in  fiery  circles,  strewing  all 

your  lines  with  slain. 


10  THE   MISSISSIPPI. 

O,  such  ships  were  never  anchored  off  the  Nile 

or  Trafalgar,  — 
See  !  they  pass  the  boom,  the  fortress,  steady, 

stormed  from  hull  to  spar  ! 
O,  such  men  were  never  marshaled   on   the 

deck  for  siege  or  slaughter, — 
Think    how    sank    the    bold   Varuna,    hero- 
freighted,  'neath  the  water  ! 
Forts  are  silenced,  fleets  are  vanquished,  shot 

nor  flame  can  bear  them  down  ; 
Now,  to  God  alone  be  glory !  safe  they  come 

before  the  town. 
0,  the  foe  by  tent  and  fireside  learned   full 

well  what  Treason  means, 
"When  the  cannon,  wrathful,  deadly,  lined  the 

wharves  of  New  Orleans  ; 
When  they  heard  the  rapturous  music,  caught 

the  crews'  victorious  cheer. 
As  again,  on  dome  and  fortress,  rose  the  old 

flag,  floating  clear ; 
Saw  the  pale,  bewildered  army  flee  in  terror 

and  dismay : 
Now,  to  God  alone  be  glory,  't  was  a  proud 
and  joyful  day ! 

From  St.  Louis,  down  the  River,  nobly  manned, 
the  Gun-boats  move ; 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  11 

Woe  to  fort  and  recreant  city  when  they  round 

their  prows  above  ! 
Ah,  what  valor  seized  the  islands  !    boasting 

Memphis  gained  again ! 
Wrapt  the  rebel  ships  in  ruin,  wave  and  flame 

our  allies  then ! 
Mile  by  mile  the  restless  River  from  its  tyrant 

rule  they  free, 
Till  the  fleet  that  left  the  prairies  hails  the 

fleet  that  sailed  from  sea ! 

"  Patience  yet,  O  greeting  sailors  !  mark  !  Port 

Hudson,  Vicksburg,  wait. 
Grimly  couched  on  savage  highlands,  sworn 

to  guard  the  River-gate. 
Call  the  soldiers  from  their  camp-fires !    man 

the  guns  !  there  's  work  to  do 
Ere  this  barred  and  gloomy  water  you  may 

sail  unchallenged  through." 
Then  beneath  the  bluffs  they  anchored,  while 

their  armies  in  the  rear 
Made   the   prisoned   traitors   tremble,  slowly, 

surely,  drawing  near. 
How  we  waited  for  the  tidings  !     "  WiU  they 

never  yield  ?  "  we  cried  ; 
"  Must  we  hold  them  still  beleaguered,  hope- 
less, starving  in  their  pride  ?  " 


12  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Spring  went  fruitless  down  to  summer  ;  't  was 
the  Fourth  day  of  July  ; 

When,  to  swell  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  an- 
thems pealing  high, 

Sudden  flashed  the  words  of  triumph,  light- 
ning-borne from  town  to  town, 

"  Haughty  Vicksburg  has  surrendered  !  we 
have  torn  their  colors  down  !  " 

And  again,  in  clearest  echo,  ere  the  clamorous 
joy  was  still, 

"  We  are  masters  of  Port  Hudson,  and  the 
River  sail  at  will !  " 

So  from  Traitor's  grasp  forever  was  the  Missis- 
sippi won ; 

Praise  the  Lord,  0  shouting  People  !  round  the 
world  the  dad  news  run  ! 


By  the  wave  or  in  the  woodland  slumber  still, 

0  Boatmen  bold ! 
Seaward  down,  through  loyal  levels,  rolls  the 

River  as  of  old  ! 
Rolls    the    River,    swift,    resistless,    scorning 

bounds  and  forts  and  foes. 
Undivided  from  the   Passes  to  Itasca's  lone 

repose. 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  13 

Hark  !  a  murmur  of  thanksgiving  !  all  its  waves 

in  music  flow, — 
Ransomed  banks  lean  o'er  to  listen, — joyous 

winds  harmonious  blow ! 
On  its  breast  in  grander   plenty  through  the 

ages  yet  unborn, 
Still  shall  float  the  teeming  harvests,  —  fairest 

cotton,  golden  corn  ; 
Cities  gleam  and  orchards  blossom ;  woodmen 

open  to  the  sun 
Leagues  of  lowland,  breadths  of  forest,  where 

its  tribute  rivers  run, 
Till  a  free  and  happy  people  fill  the  valley  rich 

and  wide. 
From  the  springs  of  great  Missouri  far  to  KWq- 

ghany's  side  ; 
While  above  them,  all  unclouded,  done  with 

war  and  envious  jars, 
Brighter  throudi  the  circling  ages  shine  the 

glorious  Stripes  and  Stars  ! 

Then  amid  the  yellow  wheat-fields  as  they  reap 

in  summer  days ; 
Heap,  when  harvest-moons  are  shining,  rustling 

sheaves  of  ripened  maize  ; 
Pluck  the  grapes  from  purple  hill-sides  when  the 

vintage  crowns  the  year ; 


14  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Grind  the  cane  and  house  the  cotton  that  has 

cost  no  bondman  dear  ; 
Choose  untrammelled,  righteous  rulers,  fit  the 

country's  name  to  bear  ; 
Hear  the  bells  from  bluflf  and  prairie  through 

the  hush  of  Sabbath  air; 
Shall  they  tell  the  thrilling  story  of  the  twice- 
won  River  o'er, 
And  the  Boatman  and  the  Soldier  honored  be 

forevermore ;  — 
In  the  nation's  song  and  record,  freighted  prose 

and  winged  rhyme, 
Light  canoe  and  war -ship  gliding,  hallowed, 

down  the  stream  of  time  ! 


HYMN  FOR   THE  NATION.  15 


HYMN  FOR  THE    NATION. 

f^  GOD  of  the  Nations !    our  country  we 

sing ; 
A  fond  heart's  devotion  the  tribute  we  bring ; 
All  trial  we  welcome,  all  danger  we  dare, 
For  the  land  that  we  love  and  the  banner  we 
bear. 
Flag  of  our  Fathers !    thy  stars  shall  not 
wane ! 
Glory  attend  thee  on  ocean  and  shore  ! 
Float  o'er  the  Free  from  the  Gulf  to  the 
main ; 
God  shall  defend  thee  till  States  are  no 
more ! 

Fair  realm  of  the  river,  the  prairie,  the  lake, 
What  is  there  we  would  not  resign  for  thy 

sake? 
Come   peace  or  come  peril,  O  home  of  our 

pride  ! 
We  '11  live  for  thee,  shield  thee,  till  death  shall 

divide. 


16  HYMN  FOR    THE  NATION. 

For  honor,  for  virtue,  for  freedom,  for  God, 
We  '11  follow  the  path  that  our  Fathers  have 

trod  ; 
Right  onward,  unswerving,  till  joyful  we  raise 
From  ocean  to  ocean  an  anthem  of  praise. 

We  hail  thee,  we  crown  thee,  bright  Land  of 

the  West ! 
God  keep  thee,  the  purest,  the  noblest,  the  best, 
While  all  thy  domain  with  a  people  He  fills 
As  free  as  thy  winds  and  as  firm  as  thy  hills. 
Flag  of  our  Fathers !    thy  stars   shall  not 
wane ! 
Glory  attend  thee  on  ocean  and  shore  ! 
Float  o'er  the  Free  from  the  Gulf  to  the 
main  ; 
God  shall  defend  thee  till  States  are  no 
more ! 


HARVEST  AND  LIBERTY.  17 


HARVEST  AND   LIBERTY. 

BEFORE    ELECTION,    1860. 

^T^HE  harvest-moon  is  waning, 
And,  under  shielding  eaves, 
The  -wheat  hes  threshed  and  garnered, 

Or  heaped  in  heavy  sheaves  ; 
And  on  a  thousand  prairies. 

Like  forest  seas  outrolled, 
The  corn  stands  -waiting  till  the  sun 

Shall  turn  its  green  to  gold. 

Along  the  fair  Ohio 

The  grapes  are  storing  -wine,  — 
Catawba,  purple  Isabel, 

And  fragrant  Muscadine ; 
And  peach  and  apple,  ripe  and  red, 

Drop  -when  the  light  -winds  blow, 
Ripe  and  red  from  the  laden  boughs, 

Till  the  grass  is  heaped  below. 


18  HARVEST  AND  LIBERTY. 

Oh,  never  'neath  Athenian  skies 

To  Ceres,  garland-crowned, 
When  scarlet  poppies  wreathed  with  wheat 

Her  shining  tresses  bound, 
Such  glad  thanksgivings  filled  the  air, 

Such  wild  and  tuneful  glee. 
As  we  could  bring  with  shout  and  song 

From  prairie-land  to  sea. 

But  let  us  put  the  sickle  by. 

Nor  mind  the  golden  sheaves, 
The  purpling  grapes  upon  the  vine. 

The  apples  'mid  the  leaves. 
For  you  and  I  and  all  of  us 

Have  nobler  work  to-day, 
That  will  not  brook  a  backward  look. 

Nor  bear  a  feast's  delay. 

Before  the  yellow  corn  is  housed. 

Or  sealed,  the  amber  wine, 
A  day  will  come  when  every  man, 

Upon  a  holier  shrine, 
Such  gift  may  lay  as  ne'er  was  borne 

From  mine  or  ocean  foam 
For  Delphi's  god,  or  greater  Jove 

Throned  on  the  hills  of  Rome. 


HARVEST  AND  LIBERTY.  19 

Not  India's  gems,  nor  Persia's  pearls, 

Nor  wood  of  rarest  trees, 
Nor  spices  from  the  Orient  isles 

Slow  wafted  o'er  the  seas. 
Our  shrine  is  Liberty's  ;  how  clear 

The  wind  around  it  sings  ! 
Our  gift,  the  freeman's  priceless  vote  ; 

Our  God,  the  King  of  kings. 

Now  who  that  loves  his  wife,  or  child, 

Or  home,  or  brother  man, 
But  in  the  bright,  heroic  ranks. 

That  day  will  swell  the  van  ? 
And  strong  in  love  and  hope  and  faith, 

And  treading  firm  the  sod. 
Up  to  the  patriot's  altar  go, 

Beneath  the  eye  of  God. 

Young  men  !  around  w^hose  virgin  vote 

The  proudest  thoughts  entwine  ; 
Fathers  !  who  ne'er  again  may  see 

The  moon  of  harvest  shine  ; 
And  ye  who  know  the  heat  of  life, 

And  bear  its  toil  and  fray, 
O  bring  your  gift,  with  fervent  heart, 

To  Freedom's  shrine  that  day  ! 


20  HARVEST  AND  LIBERTY. 

And  let  it  thrill  the  poet's  song, 

And  be  the  statesman's  care, 
And  speak  from  sermon  and  from  hymn, 

And  yearn  in  every  prayer. 
Nay,  let  it  wail  in  ocean  "winds. 

And  flash  from  out  the  sun. 
And  thunder  'mid  the  mountain  peaks, 

Until  the  Work  be  done  ! 


THE  STRIPES  AND    THE   STARS.     21 


THE   STRIPES   AND   THE   STARS. 

APRIL,    1861. 

r\  STAR-SPANGLED  Banner !  the  Flag 

of  our  pride  ! 
Though  trampled  bj  traitors  and  basely  de- 
fied, 
Fling  out  to  the  glad  winds  your  Red,  White, 

and  Blue, 
For  the  heart  of  the  North-land  is  beating  for 

you! 
And  her  strong  arm  is  nerving  to  strike  "with  a 

will 
Till  the  foe  and  his  boastings  are  humbled  and 

still ! 
Here  's  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and 

scars 
And  the  glory  of  death,  —  for  the  Stripes  and 

the  Stars  I 


22     THE   STRIPES  AND    THE  STARS. 

From   prairie,    O    ploughman,    speed    boldly 

away  ! 
There  's  seed  to  be  sown  in  God's  furrows  to- 
day; 
Row  landward,  lone  fisher !    stout  woodman, 

come  home  ! 
Let   smith   leave   his   anvil,    and   weaver   his 

loom, 
And  hamlet  and  city  ring  loud  with  the  cry, 
"  For  Country,  for  Freedom,  we  '11  fight  till  we 

die  ! 
Here  's  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and 

scars 
And  the  glory  of  death,  —  for  the  Stripes  and 

the  Stars ! " 

Invincible  Banner !  the  Flag  of  the  Free  ! 
Now  where  are  the  feet  that  would  falter  by 

thee  ? 
Or  the  hands  to  be  folded  till  triumph  is  won. 
And  the  eagle  looks  proud,  as  of  old,  to  the 

sun  ? 
Give  tears  for    the  parting,  —  a  murmur  of 

prayer. 
Then  Forward !   the  fame  of  our  standard  to 

share  ! 


THE  STRIPES  AND   THE  STARS.     23 

With  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and 

scars 
And  the  glory  of  death,  —  for  the  Stripes  and 

the  Stars ! 

0  God  of  our  Fathers  !  this  Banner  must  shine 
Where  battle  is  hottest,  in  warfare  divine  ! 
The    cannon    has    thundered,   the   bugle   has 

blown. 
We   fear   not   the   summons ;    we    fight    not 

alone  ! 
0  lead  us,  till  wide  from  the  Gulf  to  the  Sea 
The  land  shall  be  sacred  to  Freedom  and  Thee  ! 
With  love,  for  oppression;   Avith  blessing,  for 

scars ; 
One  Country  —  one  Banner  —  the  Stripes  and 

the  Stars  ! 


2-4  COMPROMISE. 


COMPROMISE. 

INSCEIBED    TO    THE     CONGRESS     OF     THE     UNITED     STATES 
ASSEMBLED    IX    EXTRA    SESSION,    JULY   4,   1861. 

/COMPROMISE  !    Who  dares  to  speak  it 

On  the  nation's  hallowed  Day, 
When  the  air  with  thunder  echoes 

And  the  rocket-lightnings  play  ? 
Compromise  ?  while  on  the  dial 

Liberty  goes  ages  back, 
Scourged  and  bound,  for  our  denial, 

Firmer  to  the  despot's  rack  V 

Compromise  ?  while  angels  tremble 

As  we  falter  in  the  race  ; 
Cringe  and  flatter  and  dissemble, — 

We  !  who  hold  such  royal  place  ? 
Compromise  !    It  suits  the  craven  ! 

Has  our  valor  stooped  so  Ioav  ? 
Have  we  lost  our  ancient  ardor 

Face  to  face  to  meet  the  foe  ? 


COMPROMISE.  25 

No  !     By  all  the  May-Flower's  peril 

On  the  wild  and  wintry  sea ; 
By  the  Pilgrim's  prayer  ascending, 

As  he  knelt  with  reverent  knee  ; 
By  that  fairest  day  of  summer 

When  the  true,  the  tried,  the  brave. 
Name  and  life  and  sacred  honor 

To  the  Roll  of  Freedom  gave ; 

By  the  tears,  the  march,  the  battle, 

Where  the  noble,  fearless  died,  — 
Round  them  roar  of  hostile  cannon. 

Waiting  angels  at  their  side  ; 
By  our  children's  golden  future. 

By  our  fathers'  stainless  shield. 
That  which  God  and  heroes  left  us. 

We  Avill  never,  never  yield  ! 

Hear  it,  ye  who  sit  in  council ! 

We,  the  People,  tell  you  so  ! 
Will  you  venture  "  Yes  "  to  whisper 

When  the  millions  thunder  "  No  "  ? 
Will  you  sell  the  nation's  birthright. 

Heritage  of  toil  and  pain. 
While  a  cry  of  shame  and  vengeance 

Rinss  from  Oreson  to  Maine  ? 


26 


COMPROMISE. 


Compromise  ?     We  scorn  the  offer  ! 

Separation  we  defy  ! 
"  Firm  and  free  and  one  forever  !  " 

Thus  the  People  make  reply. 
"  Death  to  every  form  of  Treason, 

In  the  Senate,  on  the  field,"  — 
While  the  chorus  swells  triumphant, 

"  We  will  never,  never  yield  !  " 


WHO'S  READY?  27 


WHO'S   READY? 

JULY,  1862. 

/^OD  help  us  !    Who  's  ready  ?     There  's 

danger  before ! 
Who  's  armed  and  who 's  mounted  ?  The  foe  's 

at  the  door ! 
The  smoke  of  his  cannon  hangs  black  o'er  the 

plain ; 
His  shouts  ring  exultant  while  counting  our 

slain ; 
And  northward  and  northward  he  presses  his 

line  : 
Who  's  ready  ?     O,  forward  !  —  for  yours  and 

for  mine  ! 

No    halting,    no  discord ;    the    moments    are 

Fates ; 
To  shame  or  to  glory  they  open  the  gates ; 
There  's  all  we  hold  dearest  to  lose  or  to  win ; 
The  web  of  the  future  to-day  we  must  spin  ; 


28  WHO  'S  READY? 

And  bid  the  hours  follow,  Avith  knell  or  with 

chime  : 
Who  's  ready  ?      O,   forward  !  —  while   yet 

there  is  time  ! 

Lead  armies  or  councils  —  be  soldier  a-field  — 
Alike,  so  your  valor  is  Liberty's  shield  ! 
Alike,  so  you  strike  when  the  bugle-notes  call. 
For  country,  for  fireside,  for  Freedom  to  all ! 
The  blows  of  the  boldest  will  carry  the  day  : 
Who  's  ready  ?    0,  forward  !  —  there  's  death 
in  delay ! 

Earth's  noblest  are  praying,  at  home  and  o'er 

sea, 
"  God  keep  the  great  nation  united  and  free  I" 
Her  tyrants  watch,  eager  to  leap  at  our  life, 
If  once  we  should  falter  or  faint  in  the  strife  ; 
Our  trust  is  unshaken,  though  legions  assail : 
Who  's  ready  ?      0,  forward  !  —  and  Right 

shall  prevail ! 

Who  's  ready  ?     ^^All  ready  !  "  undaunted  we 

ciy, 
Oui'  hands  on  our  rifles,  our  hearts   beating 

high  ; 


WHO'S  READY? 


29 


"  No  traitor,  at  midnight,  shall  pierce  us  in 

rest ; 
No  alien,  at  noonday,  shall  stab  us  abreast ; 
The  God  of  our  Fathers  is  guidins;  us  still : 
Ail  Forward !  "we  're  readj,  and  conquer  we 

wiU!" 


30  BY  THE   SHENANDOAH. 


BY  THE   SHENANDOAH. 


M" 


Y  home  is  drear  and  still  to-night, 
Where  Shenandoah,  murmuring,  flows  ; 
The  Blue  Ridge  towers  in  the  pale  moonlight. 

And  balmily  the  south  wind  blows  ; 
But  mj  fire  bums  dim,  while  athwart  the  wall, 
Black  as  the  pines,  the  shadows  fall ; 
And  the  onlj  friend  within  my  door 
Is  the  sleeping  hound  on  the  moonlit  floor. 

Roll  back,  O  weary  years  !  and  bring 
Again  the  gay  and  cloudless  morn 

When  every  bird  was  on  the  wing. 

And  my  blithe,  summer  boys  were  born  ! 

My  Courtney  fair,  my  Philip  bold. 

With  his  laughing  eyes  and  his  locks  of  gold,  — 

No  nested  bird  in  the  valley  wide 

Sang  as  my  heart,  that  eventide. 

Our  laurels  blush  when  May-winds  call ; 
Our  pines  shoot  high  through  mellow  showers ; 


BY  THE  SHENANDOAH.  31 

So  rosy-flushed,  so  slender-tall, 

Mj  boys  grew  up  from  childhood's  hours. 
Glad  in  the  breeze,  the  sun,  the  rain. 
They  climbed  the  heights  or  they  roamed  the 

plain  ; 
And  found  where  the  fox  lay  hid  at  noon. 
And  the  shy  fawn  drank  by  the  rising  moon. 

Fleet  Storm,  look  up  !  you  ne'er  may  hear, 

When  all  the  dewy  glades  are  still. 
In  silver  windings,  fine  and  clear, 

Their  whistle  stealing  o'er  the  hill  ! 
And  fly  to  the  shade  where  the  wild  deer  rest, 
Ere  morn  has  reddened  the  mountain's  crest ; 
Nor  sit  at  their  feet,  Avhen  the  chase  is  o'er, 
And  the  antlers  hang  by  the  sunset-door. 

What  drew  our  hunters  from  the  hills  ? 

They  heard  the  hostile  trumpets  blow. 
And  leapt  adown  like  April  rills 

When  Shenandoah  roars  below. 
One,  to  the  field  where  the  old  flag  shines, 
And  one,  alas  !  to  the  traitor  lines  ! 
My  tears  —  their  fond  arms  round  me  thrown  — 
And  the  house  was  hushed  and  the  hill -side 
lone. 


32  BY  THE  SHENANDOAH. 

But  oh  !  to  feel  my  boys  were  foes 

Was  sharper  than  their  sabres'  steel ! 
In  every  shiftnig  cloud  tliat  rose 

I  saw  their  deadly  squadrons  wheel  ; 
And  heard  in  the  waves,  as  they  hurried  by, 
Their  hasty  tread  when  the  fight  was  nigh, 
And,  deep  in  the  wail  which  the  night-winds 

bore, 
Their  dying  moan  when  the  fight  Avas  o'er. 

So  time  went  on. —  The  sides  were  blue  ; 

Our  wheat-fields  yellow  in  the  sun ; 
When  down  the  vale  a  rider  flew  : 

"  Ho  !  neighbors,  Gettysburg  is  won  ! 
Horse  and  foot,  at  the  cannon's  mouth 
We  hurled  them  back  to  the  hungry  South  ; 
The  North  is  safe  ;  and  the  vile  marauder 
Curses  the  hour  he  crossed  the  border." 

My  boys  were  there  !     I  nearer  prest,  — 
"  And  Philip,  Courtney,  what  of  them  ?  " 

His  voice  dropped  low :  "  0,  madam,  rest 
Falls  sweet  when  battle's  tide  we  stem. 

Your  Philip  was  first  of  the  brave  that  day 

With    his    colors    grasped    as    in   death   he 
lay; 


BY  THE  SHENANDOAH. 

And  Courtney  —  well,  I  only  knew 
Not  a  man  was  left  of  bis  rebel  crew." 


My  borne  is  drear  and  still  to-nigbt 

Wbere  Sbenandoab,  murmuring,  flows  ; 
Tbe  Blue  Ridge  towers  in  tbe  pale  moonligbt, 

And  balmily  the  soutb  Avind  blows ; 
But  my  fire  burns  dim,  while  athwart  the  wall, 
Black  as  the  pines,  the  shadows  fall ; 
And  the  only  friend  within  my  door 
Is  tbe  sleeping  bound  on  tbe  moonlit  floor. 

Yet  still  in  dreams  my  boys  I  own  ; 

They  chase  tbe  deer  o'er  dewy  bills. 
Their  hair  by  mountain  winds  is  blown. 

Their  shout  the  echoing  valley  fills. 
Wafts  from  the  woodland,  spjring  sunshine 
Come  as  they  0})en  this  door  of  mine. 
And  I  bear  them  sing  by  tbe  evening  blaze 
The  songs  they  sang  in  tbe  vanished  days. 

I  cannot  part  their  lives  and  say, 

"  This  was  tbe  traitor,  this  the  true  ;  " 

God  only  knows  why  one  should  stray. 
And  one  go  pure  death's  portals  through, 

3 


34 


BY   THE  SHENANDOAH. 


Thej  have  passed  from  their  mother's  clasp 

and  care ; 
But  my  heart  ascends  in  the  yearning  prayer 
That  His  larger  love  will  the  two  enfold,  — 
My  Courtney  fair  and  my  Philip  bold  ! 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS'  MEN.         35 


THE   HUNDRED   DAYS'   MEN. 

In  the  busiest  season  of  the  spring  of  18G4,  the  States  of 
Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois  pledged  to  the  Government  of  the 
United  States  one  hundred  thousand  men  for  a  hundred 
days. 

T~^IS  time  the  corn  was  planted,  the  latest 

■wheat  was  sown,  — 
The  oriole  is  in  the  elm,  the  last  swan  north- 
ward flown  ; 
By  streams  the  cottonwood  is  green,  the  plum 

waves  white  as  snow. 
The  wild-crab  blushes  in  the  woods,  the  red-bud 

soon  will  blow ; 
And  to  the  fenceless   pastures,  whose    grass 

grows  sweet  and  tall. 
Slow  move  the  herds,  to  feed  at  will  till  autumn 

frosts  shall  fall. 
O  for  the  arms  so  sturdy,  O  for  the  tireless 

feet. 
That  shared  our  toil  when  other  Mays  brought 

summer  bloom  and  heat ! 


36         THE  HUNDRED  DAYS'  MEN. 

But  proud  we  spared  our  manliest  to  face  the 

country's  foe  ; 
To  march  -when  word  comes,  "  Forward!  "  to 

ride  when  bugles  blow  : 
Now  calm  they  sleep,  by  plain  and  hill,  wrapped 

in  their  army-blue, 
Or  bear  our  banners  bravely  on,  —  and  will,  till 

wars  are  through  ! 

And  still  there  's  peril.     Fife  and  drum  thrill 

every  village  now, 
And  quickly  down  the  grain  is  flung  and  idle 

stands  the  plough. 
0  eager  youth !   O  earnest  men  !  your  steps 

we  will  not  stay  ; 
There's  nobler  need,  there 's  weightier  work ; 

haste  to  the  camp  away  ! 
AVe  '11  bear  the  double  burden,  and  blithely 

plant  and  sow, 
That  tent  and  town  and  lonely  roof  no  fear  of 

want  may  know. 
And  when  come  round  the  reaping-days  and 

lingering  moonlight-eves, 
In  cheerful  households,  young  and  old,  we  '11 

bind  the  ripened  sheaves  ; 
The  girls  shall  pluck  the  golden  ears,  the  happy 

children  glean, 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS'   MEN. 


3T 


And  thus  Tve  'II  bring  the  harvest  home,  with 
many  a  song  between, 

And  praise  to  God  that  sheaves  nor  sons  wo 
prized,  the  Land  before, 

But  joyfully,  in  busy  May,  gave  up  our  thou- 
sands more  ! 


38  REARS  ARGE. 


KEARSAEGE. 

Kearsarge,  the  mountain  -which  gave  its  name  to  the  ship 
that  sunk  the  Alabama,  is  a  noble  granite  peak  in  ilerriniac 
County,  New  Hampshire,  rising  alone,  three  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea. 

/^  LIFT  thy  head,  thou  mountain  lone, 

And  mate  thee  with  the  sun  ! 
Thj  rosy  clouds  are  valeward  blown, 
Thy  stars  that  near  at  midnight  shone 

Gone  heavenward  one  by  one, 
And  half  of  earth,  and  half  of  air, 
Thou  risest  vast  and  gray  and  bare 

And  crowned  with  glory.     Far  south-west 

Monadnoc  sinks  to  see. 
For  all  its  trees  and  towering  crest 
And  clear  Contoocook  from  its  breast 

Poured  down  for  wood  and  lea, 


KEARSARGE.  39 

How  statelier  still,  through  frost  and  dew. 
Thy  granite  cleaves  the  distant  blue. 

And  high  to  north,  from  fainter  sky, 

Franconia's  cliffs  look  down  ; 
Home  to  their  crags  the  eagles  fly, 
Deep  in  their  caves  the  echoes  die, 

The  sparkling  waters  frown, 
And  the  Great  Face  that  guards  the  glen 
Pales  Avith  the  pride  of  mortal  men. 

Nay,  from  their  silent,  crystal  seat 
The  White  Hills  scan  the  plain  ; 

Nor  Saco's  leaping,  lightsome  feet, 

Nor  Amonoosuc  wild  to  greet 
The  meadows  and  the  main, 

Nor  snows  nor  thunders  can  atone 

For  splendor  thou  hast  made  thine  own. 

For  thou  hast  joined  the  immortal  band 

Of  hills  and  streams  and  plains, 
Shrined  in  the  songs  of  native  land, — 
Linked  with  the  deeds  of  valor  grand 

Told  when  the  bright  day  wanes,  — 
Part  of  the  nation's  life  art  thou, 
O  mountain  of  the  granite  brow ! 


40  KEARSARGE. 

Not  Pcllon  when  the  Argo  rose, 

Grace  of  its  goodUest  trees  ; 
Nor  Norway  hills  ^Yhen  woodman's  blows 
Their  pines  sent  crashing  through  the  snows 

That  kings  might  rove  the  seas  ; 
Nor  heights  that  gave  the  Armada's  line, 
Thrilled  with  a  joy  as  pure  as  thine. 

Bold  was  the  ship  thy  name  that  bore  ; 

Strength  of  the  hills  was  hers  ; 
Heart  of  the  oaks  thy  pastures  store. 
The  pines  that  hear  the  north  wind  roar, 

The  dark  and  tapering  firs  ; 
Nor  Arijonaut  nor  Viking;  knew 
Sublimer  daring  than  her  crew. 

And  long  as  Freedom  fires  the  soul 

Or  mountains  pierce  the  air, 
Her  fame  shall  shine  on  honor's  scroll ; 
Thy  brow  shall  be  the  pilgrim's  goal 

Uplifted  ])road  and  fair  ; 
And,  from  thy  skies,  inspiring  gales 
O'er  future  seas  shall  sweep  our  sails. 

Still  summer  keep  thy  pastures  green. 
And  clothe  thy  oaks  and  pines ; 


KEARSARGE.  41 

Brooks  laugh  thy  rifted  rocks  between ; 
Snows  fall  serenely  o'er  the  scene 

And  veil  thy  lofty  lines  ; 
While  crowned  and  peerless  thou  dost  stand, 
The  monarch  of  our  moimtain-land. 


42  AT  HOME. 


AT   HOME. 

AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    EETUKN    OF    THE   NEW    HAMPSHIRE 

Tuoors. 

lyrOW,  Charley,  on  the  knapsacks  you  '11  find 
an  easy  bed ; 

Our  blajilcets  we  have  folded  and  smooth  above 
them  spread. 

The  train  will  soon  be  starting,  —  here,  drink 
this  cup  of  wine. 

The  captain  just  now  sent  it,  —  and,  ere  the 
morning  shine. 

Away  by  blue  Monadnoc,  and  where  the  hill- 
brooks  foam, 

You  will  be  done  with  travel  and  rest  in  peace 
at  home." 

"  O  boys  you  're  very  good  to  me  ;  I  feel  so 

tired  and  Aveak, 
That,  though  I  love   to  listen,  I  scarce  can 

bear  to  speak. 


A  T  HOME.  43 

But  I  'm  surelj  growing  better,  and  if,  at  early 

dawn, 
I  see  our  blue  Monadnoc  my  pain  will  all  be 

gone  ; 
And  when  I  hear  my  mother's  voice,  and  sit 

within  the  door 
That  opens  by  the  brook-side,  I  shall  be  strong 

once  more. 

"  How  much  I  have  to  tell  her !    My  letters 

were  not  long ; 
I  could  not  write  while  on  the  march  nor  in  the 

camp-fire's  throng  ; 
But,  when  I  sit  beside  her,  how  sweet  't  will 

be  to  say, 
'  Now,  mother,  list  the  story  of  what  befell  that 

day ; ' 

0  she  shall  hear  of  every  fight,  and  count  each 

weary  mile 

1  've  trod,  since  faint  through  silent  tears  I  saw 

her  parting  smile  ! 

"  Good  night,  boys  !   I  shall  sleep  now.    What 

joy  it  is  to  feel 
We  're  drawing  nearer,  nearer  home  with  each 

revolvin;2:  wheel ! 


44  AT  HOME. 

Good  niglit !     At  dawn  you  '11  wake  mc  wlien 

round  the  benci  we  go, 
For  there,  beside  the  station,  my  mother  '11 

Avait,  I  know ; 
And  if  she  does  not  see  me  the  first  to  leave 

the  train, 
She  '11  think  upon  some  nameless  field  her  boy 

at  last  was  slain." 

Slow  turned  away  his  comrades  to  snatch  an 
hour's  repose, 

Or  talk  of  siege  and  battle  while  clear  the 
moon  uprose  ; 

But  when  the  swift  train  halted,  back  to  his 
side  they  crept. 

And  saw  that  on  his  narrow  couch  all  peace- 
fully he  slept : 

So  night  wore  on  to  morning,  and  day  began  to 
dye 

With  floating  rose  and  amber,  the  mellow  east- 
ern sky. 

A    league    and    then    the    station.       "  Ho  ! 

Charley  !  "  blithe  they  call, 
"  Here    looms    the    mountain  ;     yonder    the 

church-spire  rises  tall ;  " 


A  T  HOME.  45 

No  sound :  they  bend  above  him  ;  his  brow 
is  cold  and  white  ; 

He  does  not  heed  their  voices,  he  stirs  not  for 
the  hght ; 

Away  by  blue  Monadnoc,  and  where  the  hill- 
brooks  foam, 

The  boy  was  done  with  travel ;  the  soldier  had 
gone  home. 


46  THE   GRAVE    OF  LINCOLN. 


THE    GRAVE   OF   LINCOLN. 

"VTOW  must  the  storied  Potomac 
-^^    Laurels  forever  divide  ; 
Now  to  the  Sangamon  fameless 

Give  of  its  century's  pride. 
Sangamon,  stream  of  the  prairies, 

Placidly  westward  that  flows, 
Far  in  whose  city  of  silence 

Calm  he  has  sought  his  repose. 
Over  our  Washington's  river 

Sunrise  beams  rosy  and  fair  ; 
Sunset  on  Sangamon  fairer,  — 

Father  and  martyr  lies  there. 

Kings  under  pyramids  slumber, 
Sealed  in  the  Lybian  sands  ; 

Princes  in  gorgeous  cathedrals, 

Decked  with  the  spoil  of  the  lands ; 

Kinglier,  princelier  slee[:s  he, 
Couched  'mid  the  prairies  serene, 


THE   GRAVE   OF  LINCOLN.  47 

Only  the  turf  and  the  ^villow 
Him  and  God's  heaven  between  ; 

Temple  nor  column  to  cumber 
Verdure  and  bloom  of  the  sod, — 

So  in  the  vale  by  Beth-peor 
Moses  was  buried  of  God. 

Break  into  blossom,  0  prairies  ! 

Snowy  and  gulden  and  red  ; 
Peers  of  the  Palestine  lilies 

Heap  for  your  Glorious  Dead  ! 
B-oses  as  fair  as  of  Sharon, 

Branches  as  stately  as  palm, 
Oders  as  rich  as  the  spices  — 

Cassia  and  aloes  and  balm  — 
Mary  the  loved  and  Salome, 

All  with  a  gracious  accord. 
Ere  the  first  glow  of  the  morning 

Brought  to  the  tomb  of  the  Lord. 

Wind  of  the  West !  breathe  around  him 
Soft  as  the  saddened  air's  sigh. 

When  to  the  summit  of  Pisgah 
Moses  had  journeyed  to  die  ; 

Clear  as  its  anthem  that  floated 
Wide  o'er  the  Moabite  plain. 


48  THE   GRAVE   OF  LINCOLN. 

Low  "with  the  Avail  of  the  people 
Blending  its  burdened  refrain. 

Rarer,  0  wind  !  and  diviner,  — 
Sweet  as  the  breeze  that  went  by, 

When,  over  Olivet's  mountain, 
Jesus  was  lost  in  the  sky. 

Not  for  thy  sheaves  nor  savannas 

Crown  we  thee,  proud  Illinois  ! 
Here  in  his  grave  is  thy  grandeur ; 

Born  of  his  sorrow  thy  joy. 
Only  the  tomb  by  iMount  Zion, 

Hewn  for  the  Lord,  do  we  hold 
Dearer  than  his  in  thy  prairies, 

Girdled  with  harvests  of  gold  ! 
Still  for  the  world  through  the  ages 

Wreathing  with  glory  his  brow, 
He  shall  be  liberty's  Saviour ; 

Freedom's  Jerusalem  thou ! 


<^^ 


HEROES.  49 


HEROES. 

I'^T^HE  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 

Have  died  by  Neptune's  ruined  shrines, 
And  her  hull  is  the  drift  of  the  deep  sea-floor, 

Though  shaped  of  Pelion's  tallest  pines. 
You  may  seek  her  crew  on  every  isle 

Fair  in  the  foam  of  iEgean  seas, 
But,  out  of  their  rest,  no  charm  can  wile 
Jason  and  Orpheus  and  Hercules. 

And  Priam's  wail  is  heard  no  more 

By  windy  Ilion's  sea-built  walls  ; 
Nor  great  Achilles,  stained  with  gore. 

Shouts,  "  O  ye  Gods  !  't  is  Hector  falls  !  " 
On  Ida's  mount  is  the  shining  snow. 

But  Jove  has  gone  from  its  brow  away. 
And  red  on  the  plain  the  poppies  grow 

Where  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan  fought 
that  day. 

Mother  Earth  !     Are  the  Heroes  dead  ? 

Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years  no  more  ? 


50  HEROES. 

Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  poppies  red 
All  that  is  left  of  the  hrave  of  yore  ? 

Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus  fought 
Far  in  the  young  ■world's  misty  dawn  ? 

Or  to  teach  as  the  gray-haired  Nestor  taught  ? 
Mother  Earth  !  arc  the  Heroes  gone  ? 

Gone  ?     In  a  grander  form  they  rise  ; 

Dead  ?    We  may  clasp  their  hands  in  ours ; 
And  catch  the  light  of  their  clearer  eyes, 

And   wreathe    their    brows    with    immortal 
flowers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  is  done 

'T  is  the  pulse  of  a  Hero's  heart  is  stirred ; 
Wherever  Right  has  a  triumph  won 

There  are  the  Heroes'  voices  heard. 

Their  armor  rings  on  a  fairer  field 

Than  the  Greek  and   the  Trojan  fiercely 
trod ; 
For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they  wield, 

And  the  light  above  is  the  smile  of  God. 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away  ; 
For  the  Heroes  live,  and  the  sky  is  bright, 

And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day. 


THE    VIRGINIA    SCAFFOLD.  51 


THE  VIRGINIA   SCAFFOLD. 

DECEMBER  2,    1859,    THE  DAY    OF    JOHN    BKOWN'S    EXECU- 
TION. 

"DEAR  on  high  the  scaffold  -  altar !   all  the 

■world  will  turn  to  see 
How  a  man  has  dared  to  suffer  that  his  brothers 

may  be  free  ! 
Rear  it  on  some  hill-side  looking  North  and 

South  and  East  and  West, 
Where  the  wind  from  every  quarter  fresh  may 

blow  upon  his  breast, 
And  the  sun  look  down  unshaded  from  the  chill 

December  sky, 
Glad  to  shine  upon  the  hero  who  for  Freedom 

dared  to  die  ! 

All  the  world  will  turn  to  see  him  ;  —  from  the 
pines  of  wave-washed  Maine 

To  the  golden  rivers  rolhng  over  CaUfornia's 
plain, 

And  from  clear  Superior's  waters,  where  the 
wild  swan  loves  to  sail, 


02  THE    VIRGINIA   SCAFFOLD. 

To  the  Gulf-lands,  summer-bosomed,  fanned  by 
ocean's  softest  gale,  — 

Every  heart  will  beat  the  faster  in  its  sorrow 
or  its  scorn, 

For  the  man  nor  courts  nor  prisons  can  annoy, 
another  morn  I 

And  from  distant  climes  and  nations  men  shall 
Westward  gaze  and  say, 

"  He  who  periled  all  for  Freedom  on  the  scaf- 
fold dies  to-day." 

Never  offering  was  richer  nor  did  temple  fairer 
rise 

For  the  gods  serenely  smiling  from  the  blue 
Olympian  skies; 

Porphyry  or  granite  column  did  not  statelier 
cleave  the  air 

Than  the  posts  of  yonder  gallows  with  the 
cross-beam  waiting  there ; 

And  the  victim,  wreathed  and  crowned,  not  for 
Dian  nor  for  Jove, 

But  for  Liberty  and  Manhood,  come?,  the  sacri- 
fice of  Love. 

They  may  hang  him  on  the  gibbet ;  they  may 
raise  the  victor's  cry 


TEiE    VIRGINIA    SCAFFOLD.  53 

When  they  sec  him  darkly  swinging  like  a 
speck  against  the  sky  ; 

Ah  !  the  dying  of  a  hero  that  the  right  may 
win  its  way, 

Is  but  sowing  seed  for  harvest  in  a  warm  and 
mellow  May ! 

Now  his  story  shall  be  whispered  by  the  fire- 
light's evening  glow, 

And  in  fields  of  rice  and  cotton  when  the  hot 
noon  passes  slow, 

Till  his  name  shall  be  a  watchword  from  Mis- 
souri to  the  sea. 

And  his  planting  find  its  reaping  in  the  birth- 
day of  the  Free  ! 

Christ,  the  crucified,  attend  him  !     Weak  and 

erring  though  he  be, 
In  his  measure  he  has  striven,  sufiering  Lord  ! 

to  love  like  Thee  ! 
Thou  the  vine,  —  Thy  friends  the  branches,  — 

is  he  not  a  branch  of  Thine, 
Though  some  dregs  from  earthly  vintage  have 

defiled  the  heavenly  wine  ? 
Now  his  tendrils  lie  unclasped,  bruised,  and 

prostrate  on  the  sod,  — 
Take  him  to  Thine  upper  garden  where  the 

husbandman  is  God  ! 


54  THE    WHITE  SLAVES. 


THE   WHITE   SLAVES. 

WRITTEN  IN  1860,  AFTEK  SEEING  A  WHITE  SLAVE  CHILD 
PURCHASED  AND  MADE  FREE  IN  PLYMOUTH  CHURCH, 
BROOKLYN. 

'T^HE  household  of  a  Roman,  in  Rome's  luxu- 
rious time, 
Was  filled  with  slaves  in  waiting  from  every 

conquered  clime. 
There  were  dreamy-eyed  Egyptians,  bom  where 

the  lotus  blows, 
And  Syrians  won   from  Lebanon,  fair  as  its 

sunset  glows, 
And  dancing  -  girls  from  Cadiz  to  while  the 

hours  with  song. 
And  dark  Numidian  beauties,  the  bronzes  of 

the  throng. 
And  hght-haired  Scythians  that  pined  beneath 

his  palace  dome, 
And  stately  Carthaginian  maids  who  would  not 

smile  in  Rome  ! 


THE    WHITE  SLAVES.  55 

These  were  their  master's  chattels,  and  humbly 
watched  his  ways, 

And  kept  his  house,  and  swelled  his  train,  and 
graced  his  festal  days  ; 

But  should  the  princely  Roman  forget  his  high 
disdain, 

And  love  the  maid  of  Carthage  or  the  singing- 
girl  of  Spain, 

And  did  she  bear  him  children,  wait  till  his 
death  should  be. 

And  she  and  they,  by  Roman  Law,  were  made 
forever  free. 

Alas !    our  later  lordUngs  this  partial  justice 

scorn  ; 
Their  hapless  children  find  a  night  that  never 

knows  a  morn  ! 
Slaves  while  their  sire  is  living,  and   slaves 

when  he  is  dead ; 
No  law  denies  the  market  the  proud  Caucasian 

head ; 
But,  hurried  to    the  auction,  the  youth  and 

maid  are  sold 
To  save  the  lands  for  legal  heirs  and  fill  their 

palms  with  gold ; 


56  THE    WHITE  SLAVES. 

And  tlie  ampler  is  the  forehead  and  the  clearer 

is  the  skin, 
The  sharper  grows  the  contest  and  the  louder 

swells  the  din. 
In  Rome  the  sire's  patrician  blood  release  and 

honor  gave, — 
With  us  it  only  firmer  clasps  the  fetters  of  the 

slave. 

And  evermore  they  cry  to  us  in  yearning  and 

despair, 
To  open  Freedom's  blessed  gate  and  let  them 

breathe  its  air  ! 
The  crescent  moon  has  hardly  filled  since  a 

fair  child  of  nine, 
Her  brow  just  tinted  by  the  land  where  warmer 

sunbeams  shine. 
With  her  small  mouth  all  tremulous,  and  eyeUds 

wet  with  tears. 
And  cheek  now  crimson   and  now  pale  with 

changing  hopes  and  fears. 
Stood  by  the  church's  altar,  —  't  is  there  such 

prayers  belong,  — 
And  asked  her   life   and  womanhood  of  the 

great,  pitymg  throng. 


THE    WHITE  SLAVES.  57 

Right  largely  did  tliey  answer,  and  listening 

angels  bore, 
Back  to  our  Lord  in  heaven  one  burning  story 

more. 

Up  the  volcano's  sloping  sides  the  oak  and 

chestnut  climb, 
And  vineyards  smile   and   orchards  wave   as 

floats  the  vesper  chime. 
'T  is  just  before  the  thunder-burst,  but  the  wide 

heaven  is  still 
As  when  an  Indian-summer  noon  lies  sleeping 

on  the  hill ; 
A  roar  —  a  crash  —  a  fiery  hell  shot  through 

the  quivering  sky. 
And  oak  and  vine  and  orchard  bloom  in  black- 
ened ruin  he  ! 
Beneath  us  a  volcano  heaves  of  more  portentous 

name, 
And  milhons,  waiting  wearily,  in  silence  feed 

its  flame; 
No  smoke  rolls  from  the  crater,  nor  hot  winds 

round  it  blow. 
But,  deep  within  its  throbbing  heart,  the  fires 

are  all  aglow  ; 


58  THE    WHITE   SLAVES. 

Woe  to  the  land  that  circles  it  when  the  wild 

moment  falls, 
And  the  long-smothered  fury  bursts  from  out 

its  prison  walls  ! 

Now  let  us  wake  from  sleep  and  ease  before 
the  fatal  day, 

Nor  dream  such  grief  and  wrong  can  die  in 
voiceless  calm  aw^ay  ; 

For  surely  as  the  mountain  stream  leaps  down 
to  find  the  sea. 

This  high-born  race,  through  love  or  hate,  must 
hasten  to  be  free. 

Oh,  louder,  grander,  till  the  words  like  trumpet- 
charges  call. 

Let  every  soul  cry,  "  Liberty!  "  and  "  Liberty 
for  aU !  " 


THE  SLAVE  SALE.  59 


THE   SLAVE   SALE. 

On  "Wednesday  and  Thursday  of  the  first  week  of  March, 
1859,  four  hundred  and  twenty -nine  slaves,  men,  women, 
and  children,  the  property  of  ilr.  Pierce  JI.  Butler,  were 
sold  at  auction,  at  the  Kace-course,  Savannah,  Geo.,  to  pay 
the  debts  of  their  master.  None  of  the  Butler  slaves  had 
ever  been  sold  before.  This  sale  had  been  largely  advertised, 
and  buyers  were  present  from  all  the  Southern  States.  When 
it  was  over,  Mr.  Butler  presented  each  slave  with  a  silver 
dollar. 

'IX/'HO  would  not  be  in  Savannah  to-day  ? 

Out  by  the  Race-course,  —  there  is  the 
Play,- 
Tragedies,  comedies,  all  together 
Shaking  hands  in  the  wild  March  weather. 
There  are  hundreds  of  actors,  the  programmes 

tell. 
And  some,  at  each  scene,  are  to  say  farewell ; 
Trust  me,  't  will  be  a  marvellous  Play, 
For  this  is  Pierce  Butler's  "  Benefit "  day. 

Mark  them.     See  with  what  eager  eyes 
They  watch  and  wait  till  the  curtain  rise : 


60  THE   SLAVE   SALE. 

Some  from  the  rice-fields  broad  and  green 
That  stretch  the  swamp  and  the  shore  between  ; 
And  some  from  St.  Simon's  Isle,  that  lies 
A  league  away  where  the  land-breeze  dies, — 
St.  Simon's  Isle  where  the  sea-Avave  flows, 
And  the  fairest  and  finest  cotton  grows. 
Parents  and  children,  every  one. 
Have  toiled  for  others  since  life  begun ; 
But  then  each  man  at  his  cabin  door 
Could  sit  in  peace  when  his  work  was  o'er, 
And  the  same  roof  covered  them  all,  though 

slaves, 
And  the  same   moon   rose   on   their  fathers' 

graves, 
And  they  laughed  and  sung  and  hoped  to  rest 
One  day  in  the  soil  which  their  young  feet 

prest. 

What  does  it  mean  that  they  tremble  here, 
Waiting  the  call  of  the  auctioneer  ? 
What  does  it  mean  !     'T  is  a  common  tale,  — 
Their  master's  funds  were  about  to  fail ; 
Mister  Pierce  Butler  has  debts  to  pay. 
And  this,  good  friends,  is  the  only  way. 
Generous  souls  !     For  his  lordly  sake 
They  ought  to  be  willing  their  hearts  should 
break. 


THE   SLAVE  SALE.  61 

And  rejoice  to  be  anywhere,  anyhow  sold, 
To  fill  his  coffers  with  needful  gold  ! 
For  what  is  the  grief  of  such  as  these 
Compared  to  a  gentleman's  moneyed  ease  ? 
And  then,  when  the  little  arrangement 's  made. 
And  he  feels  quite  sure  't  was  a  gaining  trade, 
He  '11  give  them  a  dollar  !  —  that  M'ill  heal 
"Every  sorrow  a  slave  can  feel. 
Scores  for  the  master  and  one  for  his  tool,  — 
Thus  he  '11  follow  the  Golden  Rule 
That  reads,  "  To  others  I  '11  do  what  I  see 
Will  bring  the  most  money  to  mine  and  me." 

Eleven  o'clock  and  the  sale  begins,  — 
Now  the  best  man  is  the  man  who  wins 
Hand  and  brain  at  the  lowest  price 
For  his  fields  of  cotton  and  cane  and  rice. 
Buyers  are  there  from  the  far  Southwest 
To  the  Georgian  isles  on  the  ocean's  breast, 
And  from  Florida  jungles,  gay  with  vines. 
North  to  the  woods  of  the  Carolines ; 
And  higher  and  higher  the  bidding  goes. 
And  wilder,  without,  the  March  wind  blows, 
As  one  and  another,  faint  with  fear. 
Are  led  to  the  block  their  doom  to  hear. 
There  is  Elisha  with  children  and  wife, 
0  how  anxiously  watching  the  strife  ! 


62  THE  SLAVE   SALE. 

A  mild-faced  man  in  the  crowd  they  spy,  — 
Can  he  not,  "will  he  not  all  of  them  buy  ? 
And  he  weeps  and  pleads,  but  the  man  denies, 
For  he  sees  where  a  closer  bargain  lies. 
And  their  courage  sinks  and  their  tears  come 

fast ; 
But  what  of  this  ?     When  the  sale  is  past 
They  '11  have  a  dollar  !  and  that  will  heal 
Every  sorrow  a  slave  can  feel. 
Scores  for  the  master  and  one  for  his  tool, — 
Thus  is  followed  the  G-olden  Rule 
That  reads,  "  To  others  I  '11  do  what  I  see 
Will  brmg  the  most  money  to  mine  and  me." 

The  wind  blew  strong  and  the  rain  was  cold. 
And  Daphney's  babe  was  but  two  weeks  old, 
And  to  shield   them   both   from   the  driving 

storm 
A  shawl  is  over  her  trembling  form  : 
"  Off  with  it ! "    "  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  they 

shout. 
And  the  jest  and  the  oath  are  passed  about 
Till  she  droops  and  shivers  and  wonders  why 
It  was  not  hers  and  her  child's  to  die. 
But  what  of  this  ?     When  the  sale  is  done,  ' 
And  the  papers  are  signed  and  the  profits  won, 


THE  SLAVE  SALE.  63 

She  '11  have  a  dollar !  and  that  will  heal 

Every  sorrow  a  slave  can  feel. 

Scores  for  the  master  and  one  for  his  tool, — 

Thus  is  followed  the  Golden  Bale 

That  reads,  "  To  others  I  '11  do  what  I  see 

Will  bring  the  most  money  to  mine  and  me." 

Jeffrey  has  neither  father  nor  mother, 

But  Jeffrey  and  Dorcas  love  each  other 

With  a  love  that  never  can  change  or  fail, 

And  he  tells  his  master  the  simple  tale. 

And  begs  him  to  buy  her  with  earnest  tone, — 

But  Dorcas  cannot  be  sold  alone  ; 

He  goes  to  the  swamp-lands,  drearily  parted, 

And  she  to  the  cotton-fields,  broken-hearted  ! 

But  what  of  this  ?     'T  is  a  trifling  thing  ; 

Did  they  not  excellent  prices  bring  ? 

Give  them  a  dollar  !  —  that  will  heal 

Every  sorrow  a  slave  can  feel. 

Scores  for  the  master  and  one  for  his  tool,  — 

Thus  is  followed  the  Grolden  Rule 

That  reads,  "  To  others  I  '11  do  what  I  see 

Will  bring  the  most  money  to  mine  and  me." 

Sadly  they  follow  them,  one  and  all, 
Till  none  are  left  ua  the  farthest  stall. 


64  THE   SLAVE  SALE. 

The  Play  is  over  ;  the  farewells  said  ; 

The  curtain  dropped  and  the  actors  fled  ; 

And  the  stars  shine  out,  and  the  breeze  goes  by, 

Sweet  with  the  bloom  of  the  fruit-trees  nigh. 

A  hundred  cabins  are  dark  and  still, 

And  the  wind  and  the  moonlight  may  work 

their  will. 
For  those  who  sat  by  the  open  door 
Will  never  return  to  their  shelter  more, 
Nor  dance  on  the  lawn  when  day  is  past. 
Nor  sleep  by  their  fathers'  graves  at  last. 
But  this  is  nothing ;  their  master  paid 
For  all  the  ruin  and  wreck  he  made ; 
Each  had  a  dollar  !  and  that  will  heal 
Every  sorrow  a  slave  can  feel. 
Scores  for  the  master  and  one  for  his  tool,  — 
Thus  he  followed  the  Grolden  Rule 
That  reads,  "  To  others  I  '11  do  what  I  see 
Will  bring  the  most  money  to  mine  and  me." 

God  of  the  Weak  and  the  Poor !  how  long 
Shall  their  cries  be   drowned  in   the  victor's 

song, 
And  body  and  brain  and  heart  be  sold 
For  the  white  man's  ease  and  the  white  man's 

gold  ? 


THE  SLAVE  SALE. 


65 


Hast  Tliou  not  heard  them  ?     Dost  Thou  not 

say 
There  shall  come,  at  the  last,  a  grander  Play, 
When  Thy  searchmg  eye  shall  the  actors  see, 
And  Love  the  coin  of  the  realm  shall  be  ? 
Woe  to  those  who  've  but  gold  that  day 
When  vengeance  is  Thine,  and  Thou  wilt  re- 
pay! 


6Q  FOR  FREEDOM! 


FOE  FREEDOM! 

RESPONSE    OF    THE    COLORED    SOLDIERS    TO    THE    CALL   OP 
THE  PRESIDENT,   JANUARY,    1864. 

'yHANK  God  !     'T  is  the  war-cry  !     They 

call  us  ;  we  come  ; 
Clear  summons  the  bugle,  bold  beckons  the 

drum  ; 
Our  "  Ready  !  "    rings   clearer  ;    our   hearts 

bolder  beat 
As  under  the  bright  flag  rejoicing  we  meet, 
For  still  we  have  trusted  through  darkest  delay, 
That  the  flash  of  these  guns  would  be  dawn 

of  our  day. 

'T  is  dawning !    't  is  morning !    the   hills   are 

aglow ! 
God's  angels  roll  backward  the  clouds  of  our 

woe  ! 
One  grasp  of  the  rifle,  one  glimpse  of  the  fray. 
And  chattel  and  bondman  have  vanished  for 

aye; 


FOR  FREEDOM!  67 

Stern  men  they  -will  find  us  who  venture  to 

feel 
The  shock  of  our  cannon,  the  thrust  of  our 

steeh 

And  then,  "when  the  fierce  day  is  done,  in  the 

gleam 
Of  the  camp-fire  at  midnight,  how  gayly  we  '11 

dream  !  — 
The  slave  is  the  citizen,  coveted  name ! 
That  lifts  him  from  loathing,  that  shields  him 

from  shame  ; 
His  cottage  unravished,  and,  blithesome  as  he. 
His  wife  by  the  hearthstone,  his  babe  on  her 

knee. 

The  cotton  grows  fair  by  the  sea  as  of  old  ; 
The  cane  yields  its  sugar,  the  orange  its  gold ; 
Light  rustle  the  corn -leaves,  the   rice -fields 

are  green. 
And,  free  as  the  white  man,  he  smiles  on  the 

scene  ;  — 
The  drum  beats  ;  we  start  from  our  slumbers 

and  pray 
That  the  dream  of  the  night  find  an  answering 

day. 


68  FOR  FREEDOM! 

To   God  be  the  glory  !     They  call  us ;    we 

come ; 
How  welcome  the  watchword,  the  hui-ry,  the 

hum  ; 
Our  hearts  are  on  fire  as  our  good  swords  we 

bare, 
"  For  Freedom !   for   Freedom  !  "   soft  echoes 

the  au" ; 
The  bugles  ring  cheerly ;    our   banners  float 

high ; 
0  comrades,  strike   boldly !    our   triumph   is 

nigh  ! 


CHIMES  OF  NOON.  69 


CHIMES   OF   NOON. 

"IVrOON  by  God's  unerring  dial,  —  highest 
noon  of  earth  and  time, — 

Through  the  great  cathedral  heavens,  hark  ! 
the  chimes  peal  out  sublime  ! 

Chimes  that  marked  the  rounding  ages,  ever 
grander  in  their  play, 

Ringing  clear  when  Right  was  victor,  up  through 
all  the  morning  gray  ; 

Now  they  blend  and  rise  triumphant,  —  blessed 
Bells  !  how  sweet  your  singing ! 

'Tis  the  chorus  of  the  ages, —  'tis  the  noon- 
day chimes  are  ringing ! 

God  be  praised !  we  softly  echo,  as  the  won- 
drous music  swells, 

Swaying  all  the  warm  tides  hidden  deep  in 
feeling's  holy  wells  ; 

God  be  praised !  it  is  the  singing  earth  has 
yearned  so  long  to  hear 

Stealing  through  the  tumult,  bringing  promise 
of  the  nobler  year  ! 


70  CHIMES  OF  NOON. 

"  Liberty  for  every  creature  !  "  —  thus   the 

mellow  measures  flow, — 
"  Liberty  and  Love  and  Honor ! "  chant  the 

bells  serene  and  slow. 

Fainter  now  —  the  peans  falter  —  while  a  wail- 
ing, alien  strain, 

Windintf  throu;:h  its  mournful  minor,  thrills 
the  air  with  sudden  pain  ; 

List !  the  hap|)y  voices  drown  it,  —  sorrow 
shall  not  mar  the  boon 

Of  the  bells  that  high  and  chcerly  sound  the 
glorious  airs  of  Noon ! 

"Liberty  the  wide  earth  over!"  —  still  the 
measures  rise  and  fall, — 

"  God,  the  Father  —  Man,  the  Brother  —  so 
an  end  of  scora  and  thrall." 

Chimes  celestial !  we  are  drifting  by  your  calm, 
melodious  tune, 

Out  of  cloudy,  misty  morning  into  sunlit  after- 
noon. 

There  are  seas  for  wary  sailing,  there  are 
mountains  steep  to  climb, 

Ere  we  gain  the  placid  regions  of  the  world's 
millennial  prime ; 


CHIMES   OF  NOON.  71 

Still  the  rage  and  roar  of  battle,  still  the  pride 

and  power  of  wrong, 
Yet  our  labor  shall  be  lighter,  hearing  sweet 

your  prophet-song. 

From  the  Future,  while  we  listen,  fades  the 
fihiij  veil  away. 

Broad  the  sunset  glory  brightens,  burns  to 
greet  the  Eternal  Day ! 

Vanish  earth's  despairing  shadows,  —  o'er  her 
plains  what  splendors  shine  ! 

Drained,  the  brimming  cup  of  vengeance,  now 
she  quaffs  divinest  wine  ! 

Clearer,  sweeter  chimes  are  rising  as  in  radi- 
ance melts  the  sun,  — 

'T  is  the  welcome  of  the  angels.  AUeluiah ! 
Heaven  is  won ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


(^^ 


To  the  minstrel  said  the  king, 
"  Sing  you  mournful  songs  or  glad?  " 

"  Nay,  sire,  'tis  of  life  I  sing; 
Gay  to-day,  to-morrow  sad." 

"  Minstrel,  tell  us  not  of  tears; 

Dulcet  notes  to  joy  belong." 
"  Naj',  sire,  he  who  sorrow  fears 

Will  not  hear  the  sweetest  song." 


CONSUMMATION. 

2;ct)  lMt>e  gk'lebt  un&  geliebct !  " 

XlKffaV  Song. 

^^^UT  of  dreams,  in  the  midnight  gloom, 
%   I  wake  and  the  ■wind  blows  over  the 
sea ; 
It  has  heard  the  storm  and  the  thunder  boom, 

And  the  petrel  cry,  on  its  way  to  me. 
Through  the  lattice  it  sighs  and  swells, 

But  my  heart  is  so  light  and  glad  and  gay, 
That  it  comes  like  the  music  of  fairy  bells, 

Rung  ill  the  green  wood,  far  away ; 
Sweet  as  the  carol  the  children  sing 

When  lover  and  bride  from  the  altar  go. 
And  under  the  shadow  the  lindens  fling, 
Enter  their  door  in  the  sunset  glow. 


Still,  to-night,  from  the  starless  sky 

Will  fall  the  white  frost's  glittering  sheen, 

And  faint  in  its  chill  embrace  will  lie 
Bud  and  blossom  and  mossy  green. 


76  CONSUMMA  TION. 

Dead  they  will  droop  in  the  pallid  noon, 

But  I  shall  not  weep  for  their  s^Yeetness  fled, 
For  hid  in  my  heart's  immortal  June 

Is  a  flower  unfolding,  glorious  red. 
Moan,  O  wind  of  the  stormy  deep ! 

'T  is  the  breeze  from  the  Isles  of  the  Blest 
I  hear ; 
Sink,  fair  blooms,  to  your  wintry  sleep  ! 

There  's  a  fairer  waiting  to  crown  the  year. 

When  the  rose   has  opened,  the  nightingale 
cares 
No  more  for  the  paler  buds  that  blow  ; 
When  the  pearl  is  the  prize  which  the  diver 
bears, 
The  sea  may  sleep  in  its  depths  below. 
Love  is  the  rose  earth's  bowers  enshrine, 
And  the  gleaming   pearl  of  the  caverned 
sea ; 
Now  the  rose  and  the  pearl  are  mine,  are  mine, 

And  what  is  the  land  or  the  wave  to  me  ? 
Death  may  come  in  the  morning  glow. 

Or  under  the  sunset's  amber  shine,  — 
I  shall  say,  "  Welcome  !  I  wait  to  go. 

For  the  rose  and  the  pearl  are  mine,  are 
mine ! " 


CLOUDS.  77 


CLOUDS. 

Tl/'  HAT  Alps  of  clouds  !    The  distant,  airy 

deep 
Is  broken  up,  and  fleecy  mountains  tower, 
Pile  over  pile,  and  drift  across  the  blue, 
Wild  driven   by  the  warm,  fierce  wind  that 

blows 
From  fiery  Mars  ;   while  through  their  rents 

and  chasms 
Shines  the  pure  ether  of  the  outer  realm, 
And  links  the  lone  earth  to  her  sister  spheres. 
Glorious  !    The  Universe  is  mine  the  while  ! 
Fleet  Mercury,  companion  of  the  sun. 
And  far  Uranus  with  his  loitering  years. 
And  all  the  myriad,  myriad  worlds  that  roll 
Beyond  our  vision  dim,  but  seen  of  God, 
And  heard  in  symphonies  about  His  throne. 
And  if,  above  the  splendor  of  these  cliflFs, 
Some  white-winged  angel  should  this  moment 

poise. 


78  CLOUDS. 

And  in  a  voice  of  luring  sweetness  sing, 
"  Come  hither,  hither  with  the  seraphim  !  " 
I  should  as  lightly  follow  as  the  child, 
Who,  tired  of  silent  books  and  narrow  walls. 
Hears  from  the  garden  bowers  his  mother  call. 
And  bounds  to  meet  her,  knowing  they  shall 

roam 
Through    leafy    woodlands    and    by    singing 

streams. 
Are  not  the  heavens  God's  pastures  of  delight, 
Whither  He  leads  us  when  our  tasks  are  done  ? 
Give  placid,  brooding  skies  to  Time  and  Love, 
Fond  human  love  that  nestles  in  the  vale 
And  shuns  the  wide  horizon  and  the  storm ; 
But,  for  Immortal  Birth,  a  sky  like  this. 
Upheaved,  tumultuous,  with  a  rushing  wind 
Swept  from  the  farthest  circle  of  the  stars 
To  bear  the  rapt,  exultant  soul  away  ! 

Or  such  an  evening  as  I  saw  in  June  : 
All  day  the  rain  had  fallen,  but  the  clouds 
Lifted  at  twilight,  and  to  eastward  rolled ; 
And,  from  wet  woods  and  fields,  a  silver  mist 
Rose  silently,  half  zenith  high,  and  robed 
The  near  horizon,  mountains,  meadows,  groves. 
In  the  soft  lustre  of  its  filmy  veil. 


CLOUDS.  79 

So  light,  so  thin,  that  through  its  shroud  the 

pines 
Loomed  darklj,  Uke  the  ghost  of  Loda  seen 
By  moonUght  on  the  hills  of  Inistore. 
When,  lo !  above  the  still  expanse,  a  cloud 
Lit  by  the  beams  of  the  departed  sun  ! 
A  ship  of  flame  with  crimson  sails  and  masts 
All  fiery  bright,  God's  glowing  galleon, 
Celestial  freighted  for  some  Eden  shore. 
And  ravished,  breathless,  fain  I  would  have 

cried, 
"  Ho  !  tarry  !  hither  turn  thy  gleaming  prow, 
And  take  my  soul  across  the  silver  sea!  " 

Or  an  October  sunset  in  the  hills  : 

The  west  was  banked  with  clouds ;  the  sun 

obscured  ; 
When,  suddenly,  just  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
He   burst    forth    in    farewell.       0   wondrous 

change ! 
The  south  was  sapphire  through  a  filmy  haze ; 
The  north,  the  clear,  pale,  emerald  green  of 

waves 
That  break  in  foam  upon  a  shelving  shore ; 
The  dull,  gray  bars  were  palace-pillars  tall. 
Of  gorgeous  marbles,  jasper,  porphyry. 


80  CLOUDS. 

And  flawless,  blushing  granite  siach  as  floats, 
From  far  Syene  quarries  down  the  Nile. 
And  domes  of  purest  gold  above  them  shone, 
And    towers   with    many   a    banner    burning 

high,  — 
Purple  and  scarlet  on  an  amber  sheen,  — 
While  walls  of  topaz  and  great  rubies  blazed, 
As  flashed  the  sun  or  blew  the  shifting  breeze 
O'er  the  wide  courts  and  through  the  columned 

aisles. 
Nay,  't  was  no  earthly  palace,  but  the  Bride, — 
The  New  Jerusalem  from  God  come  down, — 
And  I  had  but  to  cross  the  close-reapt  fields, 
And  pass  the  brook  and  gain  the  mountain's 

brow, 
To  swing  the  gate  of  pearl  and  enter  in. 
Forever  done  with  death  and  pain  and  tears  ! 


THY  PSYCHE.  81 


THY  PSYCHE. 

T  IKE  a  strain  of  wondrous  music  rising  up 

in  cloister  dim, 
Through  my  life's  unwritten   measures   thou 

dost  steal,  a  glorious  hymn ! 
All  the  joys  of  earth  and  heaven  in  the  singing 

meet  and  flow, 
Richer,  sweeter  for  the  wailing  of  an  undertone 

of  woe ; 
How  I  linger,  how  I  Hsten  for  each  mellow  note 

that  falls. 
Clear  as  chime  of  angels  floating  downward 

o'er  the  jasper  walls. 

Every  night  when  winds  are  moaning  round 

my  chamber  by  the  sea. 
Thine  's  the  face  that,  through  the  darkness, 

latest  looks  with  love  at  me ; 
And  I  dream,  ere  thou  departest  thou  dost 

press  thy  lips  to  mine, — 

6 


82  THY  PSYCHE. 

Then  I  sleep  as  slept  the  immortals  after 
draughts  of  Hebe's  wine  ! 

As  the  young  Endymion  slumbered  in  a  moon- 
light trance  of  bliss, 

When,  on  lonely  Latmos  lying,  Dian  stooped 
his  Hps  to  kiss  ! 

'T  was  thy  soul-wife,  't  was  thy  Psyche,  one 

uplifted,  heavenly  day 
Thou  didst  call  me,  —  how  divinely  on  thy 

brow  love's  glory  lay  ! 
Thou,  my  Cupid,  —  not  the  boy-god  whom  the 

Thespians  did  adore. 
But  the  man  so  large,  so  noble,  truer  god  than 

Venus  bore. 
I,  thy  Psyche,  —  yet  what  blackness  in  this 

thread  of  gold  is  wove  ; 
Thou  canst  never,  never  lead  me  proud  before 

the  throne  of  Jove  ! 
All  the  gods  might  strive  to  help  thee  through 

the  longest  summer  day ; 
Still  would  watch  the  fatal  Sisters  spinning  in 

the  tmlight  gray, 
And  their  calm  and  silent  faces,  changeless, 

looking  through  the  gloom, 
From  eternity  would    answer,  "  Thou   canst 

ne'er  escape  thy  doom." 


THY  PSYCHE.  83 

Couldst  thou  claim  me,  couldst  thou  clasp  me, 

'neath  the  blue  Elysian  skies, 
Then  what  music  and  what  odor  through  their 

azure  depths  would  rise  ! 
Roses  all  the  Hours  would  scatter  ;  every  god 

would  bring  us  joy ; 
So,  in  perfect  loving  blended,  bhss  would  never 

know  alloy. 

0  my  heart !  the  vision  changes  ;  fades  the 
soft,  celestial  blue ; 

Dies  away  the  rapturous  music,  thrilling  all  my 
pulses  through ; 

Lone  I  sit  witliin  my  chamber,  storms  are  beat- 
ing 'gainst  the  pane. 

And  my  tears  are  falling  faster  than  the  chill 
December  rain,  — 

Yet,  though  I  am  doomed  to  linger,  joyless,  on 
this  earthly  shore. 

Thou  art  Cupid,  I  am  Psyche,  we  are  wedded 
evermore. 


84  THE    WELCOME  SLEEP. 


THE  WELCOME   SLEEP. 

"  Ibi  pax  erit  perennis 
Et  lastitia  soleunis." 

"P^AY  by  clay,  when  the  clear  wind  blows, 

Sad,  by  the  door,  the  old  man  goes, 
With  his  cautious  step  and  his  thin,  white  hair 
Lightly  tossed  by  the  wanton  air. 
Slowly  down  the  street  he  walks. 
And  sometimes  low  to  himself  he  talks 
Of  the  mother's  voice  and  the  childhood  times. 
The  daisied  fields  and  the  Sabbath  chimes. 
And  the  wife  and  the  baby  gone  to  rest 
Long  ago,  in  the  green  earth's  breast. 
Then  on  his  staff  he  leans,  to  mark 

The  ships  come  over  the  harbor  bar. 
And  dimly  dreams  each  wandering  bark 

Has  sailed  from  the  land  where  the  loved 
ones  are. 
The  blank  sun  stares  in  his  faded  eye  ; 
He  sees  the  fleet  gulls  seaward  fly ,- 


THE    WELCOME   SLEEP.  85 

And  the  mists  of  the  ocean  melt  in  air, 

Like  the  hopes  that  have  vanished,  fleet  and 

fair. 
"  Rest,  0  Father !  "  I  hear  him  saj,  — 
"  When  will  the  evening  end  the  day, 
And  the  tired  have  blessed  leave  to  creep 

Under  the  cool  and  quiet  sod, 
Into  the  sleep  so  long  and  deep 

That  falls  on  the  weary  eyes  from  God  ?  " 

A  maiden,  by  the  old  man's  side. 

Looks  tenderly  across  the  sea ; 
The  wind,  from  off  the  waters  wide, 
Sweeps  the  gulls  in  snowy  whirls. 
And  backward  blows  her  chestnut  curls, 

As  in  a  dream  leans  she. 
Poised  on  her  slender  foot,  to  mark 

The  ships  sail  homeward  o'er  the  bar, 
And  think  how  soon  will  rise  the  bark 

That  bears  her  love  from  isles  afar. 
And  all  the  joy  of  bride  and  wife 

Comes,  timid,  in  her  face  to  shine. 
As  low  she  cries,  "  How  sweet  is  life  ! 

0  Wind !  I  drink  your  breath  like  wine  ; 
For  I  know  you  waft,  o'er  the  foaming  sea, 
In  sun  and  in  tempest,  my  love  to  me  !  " 


86  THE    WELCOME  SLEEP. 

Alas !     This  welcome,  wooing  breeze 

That  wings  her  thoughts  as  the  white  gulls 
soar, 
Deep  'mid  the  reefs  of  the  coral  seas 

Has  Avhelmed  that  bark  and  the  souls  it  bore. 
Through  the  rosy  morns  and  the  twilights  pale 
She  will  sigh  for  the  gleam  of  the  vanished  sail, 
And  the  form  that  lies  where  the  sea-flowers 

twine 
Rocked  by  the  swell  of  the  heaving  brine,  — 
Till  hope  is  dead,  and  her  white  lips  say, 
"  When  will  the  evening  end  the  day, 
And  the  tired  have  blessed  leave  to  creep 

Under  the  cool  and  quiet  sod, 
Into  the  sleep  so  long  and  deep 

That  falls  on  the  weary  eyes  from  God  ?  " 

Ah !  we  are  all  like  the  maiden  fair, 
Or  the  faint  old  man  with  the  silver  hair  ! 
"We  have  seen  the  buds  of  the  spring  decay. 
And  the  gold  of  the  morning  turn  to  gray ; 
Or,  off  some  harbor,  with  eager  eyes 
"We  watch  for  a  bark  that  will  never  rise, 
Thrilled  with  joy  at  the  flattering  breath 
That  has  borne  our  all  to  the  gulfs  of  death ! 
And,  early  or  late,  we,  too,  shall  say, 


THE    WELCOME  SLEEP.  87 

"  When  will  the  evening  end  the  day, 
And  the  tired  have  blessed  leave  to  creep 

Under  the  cool  and  quiet  sod, 
Into  the  sleep  so  long  and  deep 

That  falls  on  the  weary  eyes  from  God  ?  " 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 

T^  IS  Indian  Summer's  richest,  latest  day ; 

The  skies  are  bending  down,  serenely  blue ; 
And,  to  the  south  wind's  sigh,  the  branches 
sway 
With  answering  music  as  they  lightly  strew 
Upon  the  ground  beneath,  the  gorgeous  leaves 

Of  russet-green  and  ruby-red  and  gold, 
So  bright,  my  heart,  sad  as  the  south  wind, 
grieves 
To  see  their  glories  sinking  in  the  mould  ! 
And   every   gay   and   gladsome   thing   seems 
taking 
A  lingering  leave  of  grove  and  field  and  sky ; 
Birds,  all  the  glens  and  forest  aisles  forsaking. 
In  croft  and  orchard  sweet  lament  are  making 

For  roses  dead  and  loveless  winter  nigh. 
The  bees  are  hovering  o'er  the  lonely  flowers, 
The  gift  of  mild  September's  sunny  hours,  — 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  89 

Pale  asters  that  have  hved  through  frosty  eves, 
And  still  in  languid  beauty  tint  their  leaves 
Amid  the  mountain  fern,  that  yet  retains 
Its  fragrant  breath  through  all  the  autumnal 

rains. 
And  meek  immortelles  that,  till  snows  appear, 
Will  mourn  the  buried  splendors  of  the  year  ; 
While  squirrels  haste  with   nuts   and   acorns 

brown 
That  every  waft  above  the  wood  brings  down ; 
And,  on  the  wing,  a  golden  butterfly. 
The  last,  the  loveliest,  is  flitting  by. 
So  calm  !  so  fair !  yet  well  I  know  at  morn 
Wild  winds  will  blow  till  all  the  groves  are 

shorn, 
And  soft  mists  vanish  and  the  mountains  rise 
Cold  and  severe  in  melancholy  skies. 
Now  fades  the  sun  from  hill  and  stream  and 

dell,— 
0  mellow  Indian  Summer !  fare  thee  well ! 


90     "T/iE  PRAYER   IN  THE  DESERT." 


"THE   PRAYER  IN  THE   DESERT." 


PALNTED    BY    GEKOJIE. 


TTPON  bis  cloak  the  Arab  stands; 

Behind  him  stretch  the  solemn  sands 
Back  to  the  barren  hills  that  he 
Serene  against  the  azure  sky. 
Slow-winding  from  their  dim  defiles 
O'er  scorching  waste  and  sedgy  isles, 
From  lordly  Cau-o,  Mecca-bomid, 
Threading  the  plain  without  a  sound 
Save  when  the  burdened  camels  groan 
Or  tents  are  pitched  by  fountain-stone, 
The  long-drawn  caravan  is  seen 
Wrapped  in  the  desert's  blinding  sheen. 

No  muezzin  calls  from  minaret 
Though  clear  the  burning  sun  has  set ; 
But  waste  and  hill  and  brooding  sky 
Have  stirred  his  soul  to  deep  reply, 


''THE  PRAYER   IN  THE  DESERT."     91 

And  he,  the  chief  of  all  his  tribe, 
Has  spurred  him  forward  to  ascribe 
Glory  to  Allah,  ere  the  gloom 
And  fierceness  of  the  dread  simoom 
Shall  overwhelm,  or  failing  well 
No  pilgrim  spare,  His  power  to  tell. 

He  plants  his  lance  ;  his  steed  he  frees  : 
Light  from  the  north  the  rising  breeze 
Lifts  the  hot  cloud,  and  moans  away 
Down  to  some  Petra's  still  decay, 
Sad,  as  if  wailing  fall  and  rise 
Were  won  from  dying  pilgrims'  sighs,  — 
Their  couch  by  billowy  sands  o'erblown 
Where  Azrael  keeps  watch  alone. 
And  now,  his  sandals'  weight  unbound, 
The  desert  space  is  holy  ground  ; 
No  more  he  sees  the  weary  train, 
The  sombre  hills,  the  dusty  plain, 
But  greenest  fields  of  Paradise 
Shine  fair  before  his  ravished  eyes. 
He  hears  the  flow  of  crystal  streams. 
He  sees  the  wondrous  light  that  gleams 
From  Allah's  throne,  ablaze  with  gems. 
And,  far  below,  the  slender  stems 
Of  plumy  palms,  whose  ripe  dates  fall 


92    ^^THE  PRAYER  IN  THE  DESERT." 

When  -wincls  blow  cool  across  the  wall ; 
"While  sweeter  than  the  bulbul's  note 

Within  the  dusk  pomegranate  bowers, 
When  his  full  soul  he  fain  would  float 

Forth  to  their  yearning,  flaming  flowers. 
The  voice  of  angel  Israfeel 

Comes  winding,  warbling  through  the  air, — 
O  that  't  were  resurrection's  peal, 

And  he,  the  dead,  might  waken  there, — 
Waken  and  follow  Eden-ward, 
Lost  in  the  splendor  of  the  Lord ! 

Soon  will  his  comrades  round  him  throng, 
While  tents  are  pitched  with  jest  and  song ; 
But  not  the  night-dews,  chill  and  fleet. 
Nor  noon-tide's  burning,  blasting  heat. 
Nor  red  simoom,  nor  mocking  well 
Can  break  his  vision's  sacred  spell. 
Nor  lure  his  joj  that  forward  flies 
To  build  and  sing  in  fairer  skies. 

O  Arab !  we  are  one  with  thee  ! 
All  day  we  rove  some  desert  sea  ; 
The  winds  are  dead,  the  wells  are  dry. 
Above  us  flames  the  torrid  sky ; 
And  only  in  some  twilight  calm, 


''THE  PRAYER  IN  THE  DESERT." 

When  fires  are  spent  and  air  is  balm, 
Beyond  our  griefs  and  fears  we  ride  ; 
Our  sandal-cares  we  cast  aside  ; 
The  clouds  of  doubt  are  backward  blown, 
And  lo !  we  meet  the  Lord  alone  I 


94  ON  THE  LAWN. 


ON  THE   LAWN. 

T^HEN   Delia  with   the  dulcet  voice  came 

down 
Where,  on  the  lawn,  beneath  the  maples'  shade, 
I  sat  with  Lihan.     In  her  hand  she  held 
An  open  book  ;  and,  throwing  off  her  hat, 
While  o'er  her  shoulders  drooped  her  raven 

hair. 
And  her  lips  trembled  like  the  rose  of  June 
When  first  the   wandering   zephyr  comes  to 

woo  : 
"  Here  in  this  book,"  she  said,  —  in  faltering 

tones, 
As  sweet  and  sad  as  those  the  cuckoo  frames. 
Hid  in  her  leafy  covert,  when  the  wind 
Sighs  from  the  east  and  clouds  are  set  for 

rain,  — 
"  This  book  of  love-lore,  I  have  found  a  cry 


ON  THE  LAWN.  95 

Wrung  from  the  heart;  a  simple,  passionate 

strain 
That  makes  me  weep  for  pity.    Let  me  read :  " 

No  !  I  never  can  forget ! 
But  my  eyes  must  still  be  wet 
AVitli  these  unavailing  tears 
Through  the  wearying  lapse  of  years ; 
And  my  cheek,  so  wan  and  faded, 
Still  musl  be  the  deepest  shaded  ; 
Never  more  can  earthly  balm 
Bring  my  brow  a  moment's  calm. 

O  the  golden  eve  we  met ! 
In  the  sea  the  sun  had  set ; 
Not  a  cloud  to  break  the  wide 
Blaze  of  glory  where  the  tide 
And  the  sky  shone,  molten  one, 
As  if  earth  and  time  were  done  ; 
So  they  were  for  you  and  me  ! 
And  the  wind  blew  fresh  and  free 
Down  the  sandy,  sparkling  shore : 
Still  I  hear  the  breakers  roar, 
And  the  circling  gulls  behold, 
Snow  against  the  sunset  gold. 

Then,  O  mystery  divine  ! 

Each  of  each  said,  "  Thou  art  mine ! " 

Saw  it  in  the  beaming  eye, 

Heard  it  in  the  rising  sigh, 


96  ON   THE  LAWN. 

Felt  it  in  the  thrill  that  crept 

Through  our  j^ulses  as  we  stept 

O'er  the  boat-side,  and  afar 

Sailed  to  greet  the  vesper  star. 

Canst  thou  tell  how  feeling  stole 

Up,  at  last,  to  words,  and  soul 

Mixed  with  soul,  as  wave  with  wave 

Rolled  that  shining  shore  to  lave  ? 

If  thou  canst,  I  '11  tell  thee  how 

Leaf-buds  open  on  the  bough  ; 

Lilies  whiten  in  the  lake  ; 

Bii'ds  their  sweet  election  make. 

Ah  !  the  miracle  is  old ; 

We  were  mated,  wedded,  given 

With  a  sweetness  manifold 

Up  to  all  earth  knows  of  heaven. 

And,  despite  these  cruel  years, 

Bitter  partings,  silent  tears. 

Still  I  know  the  purpose  stands,  — 

We  have  but  unclasped  our  hands 

Till  across  the  shoreless  sea 

Thou  shalt  sail  and  dream  with  me  ! 

No  !  I  never  can  forget ! 

In  the  land  that  knows  no  sorrow 

We  shall  claim  each  other  yet  I 

Still  through  scorn  and  grief  and  blame, 

Outward  frost  and  inward  flame, 

Wait  I  for  the  blissful  morrow 

That  shall  dawn  where  nought,  I  ween, 

Cometh  wedded  souls  between  ! 


ON  THE  LAWN.  97 

All  the  airs  of  Leaven  will  play 
Soft  about  us  on  the  day 
We  shall  pledge  ourselves  to  be 
Lovers  through  eternity. 
So,  when  earthly  suns  are  set, 
Dearest  love !  I  can  forget ! 

"  Alas ! "  laughed  Lilian, "  what  a  woful  case  ! " 
Be  sure  the  lady  shut  herself  in  gloom 
Of  mouldy  rooms,  and  scorned  the  kindly  love 
That  might  have  come  to  make  her  cheerful  still ; 
Nor  ever  crossed  her  door  to  greet  the  sun, 
Nor  gathered  violets  under  April  skies. 
Nor  played  with  children  in  the  winter  eves  ; 
Thus  she  had  dried  her  tears.     Give  me  the 

book. 
And  if  I  cannot  find  a  gayer  song. 
One  w^hose  pure  honey  is  not  turned  to  gall, 
I  '11  say  it  is  no  hive  of  love.     Lo,  here, — 
Here  is  a  pleasant  rhyme  :  " 

Morn  of  Eden !     All  the  angels  must  have  warbled 
through  the  air 

Just  as  dawn  was  lighting  darkness  slowly  westward, 
silver  fair  ; 

Never  south  wind  blew  so  balmy  from  the  dusky  wood- 
land dells. 

Never  lark  such  song  uplifted  where  the  crimson  clover 
swells ; 

1 


98  ON  THE  LAWK 

Now  the  sunlight  floods  the  valley  and  the  crown  of 

joy  is  mine,  — 
I  shall  wed  my  dove,  my  darling,  ere  another  morning 

shine. 

Peerless  Daisy  !  down  the  meadow  I  can  see  thy  win- 
dows gleam, 

Cm^tained  still,  for  thou  dost  slumber,  lost  in  some 
delicious  dream  ; 

So  it  be  of  me  and  thee,  love,  sleep  may  smooth  thy 
tresses  brown 

Till  thy  mother  wake  thee :  "  Daisy,  thou  must  wear 
thy  wedding-gown." 

So  it  be  of  me  and  thee,  love,  thou  shalt  stir  not  for 
the  sun, 

And  from  this  May  night  forever  will  thy  dream  and 
mine  be  one. 

With  the  waning  purple  twilight  will  the  guests  begin 

to  meet, 
And  the  house  be  full  of  music  and  the  mirth  of  dancing 

feet ; 
I  shall  only  see  my  Daisy,  with  the  white  rose  in  her 

hair, 
And  the  blushing  face  beneath  it,  O  a  thousand  times 

as  fair  ! 
And  be  glad  when  gayly  backward  is  the  latest  parting 

thrown. 
And,  within  the  silent  portal,  we  are  left  with  love 

alone. 


ON   THE   LAWN.  99 

Ah,  happy  Lilian  !     As  she  ceased  I  saw, 
Clasped  in  her  azure  belt,  the  lily  buds 
Young  Gerald  gathered  from  the  lake  at  morn. 
What  had  regret  or  grief  to  do  with  her  ? 


100  TAKE  HEART! 


iTs 


TAKE  HEART! 

I  A  LL  day  the  stormy  wind  has  blown 
From  oflF  the  dark  and  rainy  sea ; 
No  bird  has  past  the  window  flown, 
The  only  song  has  been  the  moan 
The  wind  made  in  the  willow-tree. 

This  is  the  summer's  burial  time  ; 

She  died  when  dropped  the  earliest  leaves, 
And,  cold  upon  her  rosy  prime. 
Fell  down  the  autumn's  frosty  rime, — 

Yet  I  am  not  as  one  that  grieves, 

For  well  I  know  o'er  sunny  seas 

The  bluebird  waits  for  April  skies ; 
And  at  the  roots  of  forest  trees 
The  May-flowers  sleep  in  fragrant  ease, 
And  violets  hide  their  azure  eyes. 

O  thou,  by  winds  of  grief  o'erblown 

Beside  some  golden  summer's  bier,  — 
Take  heart !     Thy  birds  are  only  flown, 
Thy  blossoms  sleeping,  tearful  sown. 
To  greet  thee  in  the  immortal  year  ! 


IN  DREAMS.  101 


IN   DEEAMS. 

"IX/TY  love,  my  love,  when  falls  the  summer 
rain 
With  soothing  music  on  the  midnight  eaves, 
I  dream  a  dream  of  mingled  bliss  and  pain  : 
Deep  in  our  heart-fields  do  I  rove  again. 
And  bind  with  thee  the  ripe  and  shining 
sheaves. 

0  Land  of  Joy  !  the  purple  mountains  flinging 

Rich  bars  of  shade  across  our  sunny  ease, 
The  spicy  blooms,  the  groves  with  bird-notes 

ringing, 
And,   sweet   through   all,   the   wind    a   carol 
singing 
Of  fairer  morns  to  rise  o'er  rosy  seas. 

Love's  harvest  clime,  alas !  is  ours  no  more  ! 

For  other  hearts  is  heaped  the  golden  grain  ! 
We  may  not  glean  where  glad  we  reapt  before, 


102  IN  DREAMS. 

Nor  sing  the  songs,  nor  wear  the  smiles  we 
wore, 
Nor  hear  the  wind  blow  sweet  across  the 
plain. 

Yet   still,   my   love,   when   fall    the    summer 
showers 
"With  soothing  music  on  the  midnight  eaves, 
I  dream  a  dream  that  all  my  Hfe  o'erpowers : 
Blithe  in  our  heart-fields  do  I  pluck  the  flowers, 
And  bind  with  thee  the  ripe  and  shining 
sheaves. 


DAILY  DYING.  103 


DAILY   DYING. 

IVTOT  in  a  moment  drops  the  rose 

That  in  a  summer  garden  grows  : 
A  robin  sings  beneath  the  tree 
A  twilight  song  of  ecstasy, 

And  the  red,  red  leaves  at  its  fragrant  heart, 
Trembling  so  in  delicious  pain, 

Fall  to  the  ground  with  a  sudden  start. 

And  the  grass  is  gay  with  a  crimson  stain ; 

And  a  honey-bee,  out  of  the  fields  of  clover, 

Heavily  flying  the  garden  over. 

Brushes  the  stem  as  it  passes  by, 

And  others  fall  where  the  heart-leaves  lie. 

And  air  and  dew,  ere  the  night  is  done. 

Have  stolen  the  petals,  every  one. 

And  sunset's  gleam  of  gorgeous  dyes 
Ne'er  with  one  shadow  fades  away. 

But  slowly  o'er  those  radiant  skies 

There  steals  the  evening  cold  and  gray, 


104  DAILY  DYING. 


And  amber  and  violet  linger  still 
When  stars  arc  over  the  eastern  hill. 


The  maple  does  not  shed  its  leaves 
In  one  tempestuous  scarlet  rain, 

But  softly,  -when  the  south  -wind  grieves, 
Slow-wandering  over  wood  and  plain, 
One  by  one  they  waver  through 
The  Indian  Summer's  hazy  blue, 
And  drop,  at  last,  on  the  forest  mould, 
Coral  and  ruby  and  burning  gold. 

Our  death  is  gradual,  like  to  these  ; 

We  die  with  every  waning  day  ; 
There  is  no  waft  of  sorrow's  bi-eeze 

But  bears  some  heart-leaf  slow  away  ! 

Up  and  on  to  the  vast  To  Be 

Our  life  is  going  eternally  ! 
Less  of  earth  than  we  had  last  year 

Throbs  in  your  veins  and  throbs  in  mine, 
But  the  way  to  heaven  is  growing  clear, 

Wliile  the  gates  of  the  city  fairer  shine. 

And  the  day  that  our  latest  treasures  flee, 

Wide  they  will  open  for  you  and  me  ! 


THE    WIND  IN  THE  PINE.        105 


THE   WIND   IN   THE    PINE. 

r\  WAILING  Wind !  what  words  are  thine, 
As  through  the  dark,  o'erhanging  pine, 
Beneath  whose  dusky  shadow's  play 
I  dream  this  August  noon  away, 
Thou  murmurest  now  with  voice  as  sad 
As  if  thy  heart  were  never  glad  ? 
As  if  this  weird  and  towering  tree 
Were  all  of  life  and  love  to  thee, 
And  only  from  its  cloister  dim 
Could  rise  thy  low,  mysterious  hymn  ? 

Thou  shouldst  not  breathe  so  wild  a  lay 
On  summer's  clearest,  gayest  day,  — 
For  up  the  sombre  branches  through 
I  see  the  sky's  delicious  blue, 
And,  bright  the  mountain  track  across, 
The  sunshine  falls  on  crag  and  moss, 
And  shows  the  white  immortelle  flower 
That  gleams  aUke  through  shine  and  shower, 


106    THE    WIND  IN  THE  PINE. 

Li  clustered  grace  amid  the  fern 
Green-waving  by  tlie  crystal  burn  ; 
And  fair  beside  the  forest  gloom 
Lights  up  the  aster's  purple  bloom, 
And  gilds  the  golden-rods  that  glow 
In  sprays  of  splendor,  far  below  ; 
While,  deep  within  the  windless  wood, 

I  hear  a  cuckoo's  silver  call, 
That  stirs  the  slumberous  solitude 

With  many  a  mellow  rise  and  fall. 

O  I  have  watched  thee  woo  the  rose 
So  tenderly,  at  daylight's  close  ! 
And  seen  thee  brush  the  morning  dew 
From  off  the  violet's  leaves  of  blue, 
And  whisper  to  a  bed  of  daisies 
Just  newly  blown,  uncounted  praises ; 

And  then,  (so  fickle  was  thy  love,) 
Hide  in  the  foxglove's  honeyed  cell, 
And  rock  the  tuUp's  gorgeous  bell, 
All  in  the  face  of  the  pure  heaven,  — 
As  if  to  roving  winds  't  Avere  given 
To  gain  the  sweets  of  every  flower, 
And  make  each  cup  a  bridal  bower, 

When  summer  suns  shone  out  above  ! 
And  songs  that  seraphs  might  have  sung, 


THE    WIND  IN  THE  PINE.        107 

I  've  heard  tliee  sing,  and  backward  flung 
My  window  lattice,  fain  to  hear 
The  strain  again  so  fine  and  clear  ! 

But  now  those  joyous  tones  are  fled. 

And,  like  a  dirge  above  the  dead. 

Thy  melancholy  measures  fall,  — 

O  have  they  stirred  a  funeral  pall 

Folded  mutely,  coldly  over 

Some  maiden's  fond  and  faithful  lover  ? 

Or  where,  by  stormy  Labrador, 

Through  brooding  mists  the  sea-birds  soar. 

Didst  waft  the  bark  the  fisher  gave 

Light-winged  as  they,  to  morning  wave. 

Swift  leagues  across  the  sunless  blue 

'Till  the  red  rocks  were  lost  to  view, 

To  see  it  sink,  in  evening  foam, 

Full  in  the  sight  of  wife  and  home  ? 

Or,  sadder  far  than  scene  like  this, 
0  hast  thou  marked  the  living  death 

Of  one  so  long  bereft  of  bliss 
He  yearns  to  yield  his  lingering  breath  ?  — 
To  whom  the  angel's  face  would  be 
Like  gleam  of  morn  to  souls  at  sea 
All  the  night  tossing  wearily  !  — 


108         THE    WIND  IN  THE  PINE. 

And  thrilled  and  filled  with  his  despair, 
Hast  come  to  grieve  our  mountain  air  ? 

O  waihng  Wind  !   I  listen  well ; 

What  mournful  secret  wouldst  thou  tell  ? 

Now  night  comes  noiseless  o'er  the  hill, 
The  vesper  star  looks  out  in  heaven. 

And  all  the  air  is  hushed  and  still 
Save  when  a  mountain  bird  has  given 
His  rushing  pinions  to  the  blue 
And  silent  depths  he  circles  through, 
Up  to  his  eyrie  in  the  shade 
Some  cUff's  declinino;  brow  has  made. 
And  I  must  to  the  valley  go. 
That  lies  in  evening  calm  below. 
There  nested  robins  peaceful  fold 
Their  wings  above  their  breasts  of  gold, 
But  yet  another  note  they  '11  try 
When  they  shall  hear  me  gliding  by ; 
And  waves  of  shade,  in  meadow-grass. 
Will  run  to  greet  me  as  I  pass, 
And  many  a  soft,  caressing  breeze 
Come  fragrant  up  from  clover  leas, 
And  scarlet  honeysuckles  droop 
In  welcome  as  I  hghtly  stoop, 


THE    WIND  IN   THE  PINE.        109 

And  part  the  arbored  vines,  and  o'er 
The  threshold  gain  my  chamber  door. 

But  often,  when  the  skies  are  clear 

And  not  a  whisper  's  in  the  vale, 
If  down  the  mountain  floats  a  tone 
Sweet  and  sorrowful  and  lone 

Like  music  blended  with  a  moan, 
I  '11  climb  this  rocky  steep  to  hear, 

Beneath  the  pine,  thy  tearful  tale. 
And  I  will  tell  thee  all  my  heart, 

And  thou  shalt  give  me  back  thine  o-wn. 
And  haply  thus,  when  next  we  part. 

Thy  burden  will  have  lighter  grown. 
Farewell !  Thy  woes  shall  all  be  mine, 
O  Singer  in  the  mountain  pine  ! 


110  HEAR  T-DEA  THS. 


HEART-DEATHS. 

XT  E ARTS  oft  die  bitter  deaths  before 

The  breath  is  breathed  away, 
x\nd  number  weary  twilights  o'er, 
Ere  the  last  evening  gray. 

I  've  sometimes  looked  on  closed  eyes. 

And  folded  hands  of  snow, 
And  said,  "  It  was  no  sacrifice ; 

The  heart  went  long  ago." 

O  blessed  Death,  that  makes  our  bed 

Beneath  the  daisies  deep  ! 
0  mocking  Life,  when  hearts  have  fled. 

And  eyes  must  watch  and  weep  ! 


A    SUMMER   DAY.  HI 


A   SUMMER  DAY. 

/^  FOR  a  summer  day  when  time  was  young 
^""^  And  o'er  the  hills  Aurora  led  the  morn, 
While  olive  groves  and  fir-dark  mountains  rung 

To  the  clear  A\anding  of  Diana's  horn  ! 
And  on  the  woody  heights,  his  Nymphs  among, 

'  Or  Fauns  eluding,  in  some  cave  forlorn, 
Great  Pan  from  woven  reeds  sweet  music  flung 

To  the  soft  winds  that  curled  Demeter's  corn. 
And,  lapt  in  languor,  by  the  crystal  springs 

The  white-armed  Naiads  leaned  upon  their 
urns. 
And  Sylphs  flew  past  on  silent,  rainbow  Avings, 

And  Dryads  whispered  by  the  drooping  ferns, 
Where,  hid  in  myrtles  from  Apollo's  ray, 
Resplendent  Venus  slept  the  noon  away. 

And  sea-crowned  Nereas  watched  the  snowy 
sails 
Cross  the  ^gean  in  some  golden  quest, 


112  A   SUMMER  DAY. 

While  from  Olympus  stole  celestial  gales 

Perchance  had  ruffled  glorious  Juno's  vest ; 
And  Jove's  swift  eagles  soared  above  the  vales, 

Lost  in  the  Sun-god  as  they  neared  the  west ; 
And  shepherds  told  of  Hermes  wondrous  tales, 

And  how  Persephone  was  Pluto's  guest,  — 
Till  starry  Night  came  down  so  still  and  fair 

That  gods  and  men  were  lulled  to  like  repose, 
And  Sleep,  the  cherub,  ere  they  were  aware 

With  poppies  twined  their  morning  wreath 
of  rose. 
And,   through    the    Ivory    Gate,   in   blissful 

vision. 
They  roamed  the  gardens  of  the  realm  Elysian. 


THE  BLUEBIRD.  113 


THE   BLUEBIRD. 


T  AM  so  blithe  and  glad  to-day ! 
At  morn  I  heard  a  bluebird  sing 


o  ' 


The  bluebird,  warbling  soul  of  spring, 

The  prophet  of  the  leafj  May,  — 

And  I  knew  the  violets  under  the  tree 

Would  listen  and  look  the  bird  to  see, 

Peeping  timidly,  here  and  there. 

In  purple  and  odor  to  charm  the  air ; 

And  the  wind-flower  lift  its  rose-veined  cup. 

In  the  leaves  of  the  old  year  buried  up, 

And  all  the  delicate  buds  that  bloom 

On  the  moss-beds,  deep  in  the  forest  gloom, 

Would  stir  in  their  slumber,  and  catch  the 

strain. 
And  dream  of  the  sun  and  the  April  rain,  — 
For  spring  has  come  when  the  bluebird  sings, "" 
And  folds  in  the  maple  his  glossy  wings,      ' 


114  THE  BLUEBIRD. 

And  the  wind  may  blow  and  the  storm  may 

fall, 
But  the  voice  of  summer  is  heard  in  all. 

I  am  so  blithe  and  glad  to-day  ! 

My  heart,  beside  the  bluebird,  sings, 
And  folds,  serene,  its  weary  wings, 

And  knows  the  hours  lead  on  to  May. 


ALLAN.  115 


ALLAN. 

TF  it  were  Allan's  step  that  stirred 

The  rose  by  the  door  !  —  or  a  deeper  word 
In  the  song  of  the  camp,  he  gaylj  sings, 
That  shook  the  tree  and  the  twining  rings 
Of  the  vines  that  over  my  casement  creep  ! 
The  moon  is  up  ;  does  the  night  wind  sleep  ? 
So  in  the  hush  and  the  tender  shine 
'T  were  Allan,  what  joy  could  mate  with  mine  ? 

Allan's  bride  I  had  been  to-night ; 
Did  you  not  hear  a  footstep  light, 
Over  the  flag-stone,  up  the  stair  ? 
0  my  heart !  if  't  were  Allan  there, 
Out  of  his  camp  in  the  wild  Southwest 
Come  to  clasp  his  bride  to  his  breast ! 
See  !  a  shadow  athwart  the  floor  ! 
Lift  the  latch  quickly  ;  open  the  door 
And  let  my  lover,  my  warrior  in. 
That  I  may  be  first  his  smile  to  win. 


116  ALLAN. 

Ah,  no !  nor  step,  nor  voice  in  tune, 

But  the  wind  that  woke  with  the  climbing  moon 

To  stir  the  boughs,  and  along  the  stair 

Sigh  for  the  foot  that  falls  not  there  ! 

But  the  swaying  shade  of  the  willow  thrown 

Dark  on  the  wall  and  the  wide  hearth-stone  ! 

Low  let  the  curtains  fall ;  loose  my  hair  ; 

What  care  I  though  the  night  be  fair  ? 

All  the  stars  in  the  skies  might  set 

If  Allan  could  whisper,  "  Margaret !  " 

He  will  not  come ;  but  his  thoughts,  I  know, 

Are  of  home  and  me  in  the  tent-fire's  glow ; 

And  he  bends  by  the  flickering  flame  to  write, 

"  Love,  it  is  still  our  wedding  night ! 

For  in  heart  and  soul,  though  leagues  divide, 

Fondly  I  clasp  my  promised  bride." 

Or  out  in  the  darkness  he  whispers  low. 

As  he  follows  the  track  of  the  flying  foe, 

"  O  if  my  path  to-night  were  free, 

How  swift  would  I  ride,  my  love,  to  thee  1 " 

God  be  his  keeper !  —  hsten !  I  hear 

Steps  by  the  garden -gate  —  now  they  draw 

near  I 
Throw  up  the  curtain ;  the  moon 's  in  the  west ; 


ALLAN.  117 

The  wind  in  the  -willow  is  lulled  to  rest ; 
Hush !  there 's  a  foot  on  the  stone,  the  stair,  — 
Is  it  some  messenger  sent  to  bear 
Tidings  of  sorrow  ?     Unbar  the  door 
And  see  who  hurries  the  threshold  o'er. 
What   greeting  !      My   eyes   with   tears   are 

wet, — 
0  joy !   it  is  Allan  !  —  "  My  Margaret !  " 


118     HEAVEN,  0  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE. 


HEAVEN,  0  LORD,  I   CANNOT  LOSE. 

"VT  OW  summer  finds  her  perfect  prime  ! 

Sweet  blows  the  wind  from  western  calms : 
On  every  bower  red  roses  climb  ; 

The  meadows  sleep  in  mingled  balms. 
Nor  stream,  nor  bank  the  wayside  by, 

But  lilies  float  and  daisies  throng, 
Nor  space  of  blue  and  sunny  sky 

That  is  not  cleft  with  soaring  song. 
O  flowery  morns,  0  tuneful  eves, 

Fly  swift !  my  soul  ye  cannot  fill ! 
Bring  the  ripe  fruit,  the  garnered  sheaves, 

The  drifting  snows  on  plain  and  hiU. 
Alike,  to  me,  fall  frosts  and  dews  ; 
But,  Heaven,  0  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 

Warm  hands  to-day  are  clasped  in  mine  ; 

Fond  hearts  my  mirth  or  mourning  share ; 
And,  over  hope's  horizon  line, 

The  future  dawns,  serenely  fair. 


HEAVEN,  0  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE.    119 

Yet  still,  though  fervent  vow  denies, 

I  know  the  rapture  will  not  stay ; 
Some  wind  of  grief  or  doubt  will  rise 

And  turn  my  rosy  sky  to  gray. 
I  shall  awake,  in  rainy  morn, 

To  find  my  hearth  left  lone  and  drear ; 
Thus,  half  in  sadness,  half  in  scorn, 

I  let  my  life  burn  on  as  clear 
Though  friends  grow  cold  or  fond  love  woes  ; 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 

In  golden  hours  the  angel  Peace 

Comes  down  and  broods  me  with  her  wings  : 
I  gain  from  sorrow  sweet  release ; 

I  mate  me  with  divinest  things  ; 
When  shapes  of  guilt  and  gloom  arise 

And  far  the  radiant  angel  flees,  — 
My  song  is  lost  in  mournful  sighs, 

My  wine  of  triumph  left  but  lees. 
In  vain  for  me  her  pinions  shine. 

And  pure,  celestial  days  begin ; 
Earth's  passion-flowers  I  still  must  twine, 

Nor  braid  one  beauteous  dily  in. 
Ah !  is  it  good  or  ill  I  choose  ? 
But  Heaven,  0  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 


120  HEAVEN,  0  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE. 

So  wait  I.    Every  day  that  dies 

With  flush  and  fragrance  born  of  June, 
I  know  shall  more  resplendent  rise 

Where  summer  needs  nor  sun  nor  moon. 
And  every  bud,  on  love's  low  tree, 

Whose  mocking  crimson  flames  and  falls, 
In  fullest  flower  I  yet  shall  see 

High  blooming  by  the  jasper  walls. 
Nay,  every  sin  that  dims  my  days, 

And  Avild  regrets  that  veil  the  sim. 
Shall  fade  before  those  dazzling  rays, 

And  my  long  glory  be  begim  ! 
Let  the  years  come  to  bless  or  bruise ; 
Thy  Heaven,  0  Lord,  I  shall  not  lose  I 


NIGHT-FALL.  121 


NIGHT-FALL. 

"D  OSE  and  amber  roundXhe  sun, 

Lo  !  another  day  is  done  ! 
Now  while  soft' the  night-winds  call, 
Dews  and  purple  shadows  fall, 
And  upon  the  horizon's  rim 
Sleep  the  mountains  vast  and  dim. 
In  the  embrace  of  watching  skies 
Earth  will  rest  till  morning  rise. 

When  the  shadows  fall  for  me, 
Love  !  my  rose  and  amber  be  ! 
And  on  life's  horizon  rim 
Heavenly  mountains  slumber  dim. 
Saviour !  Jesus  !  to  thy  breast 
Fold  me  then  in  perfect  rest ; 
Safe  in  shielding  such  as  thine 
Till  the  eternal  mornino;  shine  ! 


122      THE  BIRD  AT  GREENWOOD. 


THE   BIRD  AT   GREENWOOD. 

'UROM  the  grave  of  a  lovely  maiden 

A  white  cross  upward  sprung, 
And  aloft  on  the  carved  marble 
A  Bird  in  the  sunset  sung. 

The  sky  was  a  dome  of  glory 

As  the  sun  dropped  down  in  the  sea, 

And  the  dusk  of  the  purple  shadows 
Fell  over  the  graves  and  me. 

And  winds  from  the  meadows  blowing. 

Whispered  and  died  away, 
But  the  Bird  sang  on  in  the  stillness 

Of  the  sloAvly  waning  day. 

Sweet  as  the  hymns  of  angels 
Floating  the  valley  o'er. 


THE  BIRD  AT  GREENWOOD.     123 

Were  the  notes  the  twilight  zephyrs 
Down  from  the  white  cross  bore  ; 

And  the  loved  ones  slept  no  longer 

Under  the  daisied  green, 
But  smiled  in  immortal  beauty 

The  radiant  clouds  between. 

Sorrow  and  parting  over, 

Lover  and  maid  were  there. 
And  the  mother  pressed  to  her  bosom 

The  babe  with  its  golden  hair  ; 

While  the  Bird  sang  louder,  clearer, 

A  rich,  exulting  lay. 
Till  the  evening  shades  grew  darker, 

And  the  vision  passed  away. 

Then  the  Singer  with  silent  pinion 

Up  from  the  white  cross  flew. 
Over  the  slumbering  ocean. 

Into  the  deepening  blue. 

Perhaps  in  a  swaying  willow 
It  sought  its  sheltered  nest, 


124      THE  BIRD  AT  GREENWOOD. 

And,  lulled  by  the  leafy  murmur, 
Stooped  to  delicious  rest. 

Perhaps,  —  by  the  latest  crimson 
That  lingered  along  the  strand, 

Over  the  fading  sunset 

It  soared  to  the  Deathless  Land. 


TRUST.  125 


TRUST. 

T  AM  not  afraid  of  dying  ; 

When  the  midnight  winds  are  sighing 
I  could  beckon  them  to  waft  me,  waft  me  to 
the  upper  skies  ; 
And  when  clear  the  moon  has  risen 
From  her  cloudy,  eastern  prison, 
I  could  sink  with  her  o'er  hills  of  dawn,  nor 
wish  again  to  rise. 

Earth  with  charms  I  cannot  number 
Woos  me  to  a  placid  slumber. 
Dreamless,  deep,  and  all  unbroken  'neath  the 
summer  turf  so  green  ; 
Roses  everywhere  are  blowing ; 
Will  a  better  time  for  going 
To  the  land  of  sleep  and  silence  come  Hfe's 
morn  and  eve  betAveen  ? 


126  TRUST. 

I  am  not  afraid  of  dying  ; 
In  such  holy  quiet  lying, 
There  would  come   no  weary  waking  with  a 
weight  upon  my  breast ; 
Were  the  mornings  gray  or  golden, 
By  a  sweet  enchantment  holden 
I  should  slumber  till  the  angels  bore  me  up  to 
heavenly  rest. 

Mine  's  a  short  and  simple  story ; 
O  !  thou  tender  Lord  of  Glory ! 
Take  me  gently  in  thy  bosom  w^hen  I  'm  weary 
of  the  way ! 
Only  let  me  see  Thee  clearer, 
Only  w^iisper,  "  Child,  come  nearer,"  — 
So  my  living  shall  be  blessed  as  my  welcome 
dying  day. 


WINTHROP  EARL.  127 


WINTHROP   EARL. 

"D  OSY  mouth  and  eyes  of  gray 
Soft  as  twilight's  tender  ray, 
Voice  like  song  of  robin  sung 
Blooming  groves  of  May  among, 
Silken  hair  in  sunny  cui'l,  — 
How  we  loved  him  —  Winthrop  Earl ! 

Twice  the  summer  round  his  head 
Wreathed  its  roses  white  and  red  ; 
Twice  o'er  garden,  roof,  and  wall 
Light  he  watched  the  snow-flakes  fall ; 
Then  from  Hfe's  bewildering  whirl 
Fled  forever  —  Winthrop  Earl ! 

Ere  had  blown  one  chilling  breeze, 

Lo  !  he  sought  unruffled  seas  ! 

Shunned  the  gulfs,  the  treacherous  sands, 

Neared  the  far,  celestial  lands,  — 

So  a  stainless  sail  to  furl 

In  God's  harbor  —  Winthi'op  Earl ! 


128  THE  PRIEST  AND  I. 


THE  PRIEST  AND  I. 

A  M  I  too  happy  ?     Have  I  lost 

The  hjinns  of  heaven,  the  shining  host, 
For  the  low  song  my  Bertrand  sings 
Beneath  the  shade  the  myrtle  flinga 
Across  the  door  in  sunset  glow  ? 
And  for  my  cherub  Angelo  ?  — 
My  glorious  boy  with  sweeter  smile 
Than  wears,  within  St.  Francis's  aisle, 
That  infant  John  the  friars  say 
Will  yet  take  wing  and  soar  away  ! 
Nay,  —  JMary,  grace  !  Avith  hair  of  gold 
And  brow  like  the  young  Christ's  you  hold, 
O'er  the  high  altar,  hovering  fair, 
Upborne  by  clear,  celestial  air  ! 

How  calm  he  sleeps  upon  my  breast ! 
Would  the  great  Father  send  such  guest 
Into  my  bosom,  if  to  win 
And  welcome  were  a  deadly  sin  ? 


THE  PRIEST  AND  I.  129 

Or  give  the  boj  my  Bertrand's  eyes 
If  evil  lurked  in  Bertrand's  guise  ? 
Hark  !  't  is  his  step  across  the  sward  ; 
Forgive  me  if  I  wander,  Lord  ! 
But  O,  I  surely  love  Thee  more 
For  the  dear  face  beside  the  door, 
And  for  the  fond  arms'' tender  fold, 
Than  if  I  knelt,  a  maiden  cold. 
And  only  knew  of  love  and  Thee 
What  the  lone  cloister  taught  to  me. 

And  yet  the  Priest  says  I  have  sealed 

My  own  damnation  ;  madly  healed 

My  orphan  sorrow  with  a  name 

Will  send  me  straight  to  burning  flame  ! 

Because  I  dared  to  give  my  vows 

To  Bertrand ;  would  not  be  the  spouse 

Of  Holy  Church,  and  wear  the  veil 

Within  the  convent's  dreary  pale, — 

Our  Lady's,  —  hid  in  dusk  of  trees 

High  up  the  chilly  Pyrenees, 

Where  the  white,  ghostly  nuns  look  out, 

And  wild  winds  toss  the  boughs  about, 

And  moan  and  mutter  through  the  air. 

Of  fast  and  scourge  and  midnight  prayer. 


130  THE   PRIEST  AND  I. 

O,  what  a  living  death  were  mine, 
Locked  in  that  gloom  of  fir  and  pine  ! 

And  here,  like  roses  to  the  sun. 
My  bright  days  open,  one  by  one  ; 
And,  deep  within  their  bloom,  my  heart 
Sings  like  some  nightingale  apart 
In  orange  grove,  while  winds  of  May 
Up  the  still  valley  waft  his  lay  ! 
And  have  I  failed  of  heaven  for  this  ? 
Bartered  my  soul  for  Bertrand's  kiss  ? 
Foregone  sweet  INIary's  kindly  care 
Because  my  boy,  like  hers,  is  fair  ? 
And  does  God  mock  our  yearnings  so  ? 
Nay  !  't  is  a  fiendish  lie,  I  know  ! 
God  smiles  on  earth,  though  throned  above  ; 
And  what  is  heaven  but  purer  love  ? 
"We  three,  together,  glad  will  go,  —   ■•- 
Bertrand  and  I  and  Anselo  ! 


ROBERT  BURNS.  131 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

r\  MY  Poet !  thou  didst  cast  it 

In  the  furrow  of  the  years, 
That  "  A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that ;  " 

Thou  didst  water  it  with  tears. 
Now  the  harvest-time  is  coming  ; 

Now  the  fields  are  white  with  grain  ; 
Thou,  the  sower,  art  the  reaper, 

Binding  sheaves  on  every  plain. 
From  thy  errors  we  absolve  thee. 

Soul  at  rest  beneath  the  sod  !  — 
Say,  "  He  was  of  man  the  lover  ; 

Leave  him  to  the  love  of  God.'* 

There  are  kings  with  crown  and  sceptre 
Ruling  proud  o'er  shores  and  seas  ;  — 

Thou  hast  empire  wider,  grander. 
Than  the  stateliest  of  these. 

Theirs  by  mountain  chains  is  bounded, 
Or  a  river's  winding  line  ; 


132 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


Thine  sweeps  broad  from  tropic  palm-tree8 
To  the  farthest  polar  pine. 
',  And,  till  dawn  millennial  ages, 
'^v  As  their  memory  backward  turns, 
Truest  Brother,  sweetest  Singer, 
Men  shall  reckon  Robert  Burns. 


THE   EVENING  ANGEL.  133 


THE   EVENING  ANGEL. 

T^HE  snowy  day  was  sinldng  down 

To  gloomy  eve,  Avithout  a  star, 

And  winds,  wild  moaning  from  the  sea, 

Swept  inward  o'er  the  harbor  bar. 

Half  dreaming,  by  the  twilight  fire, 

Of  vanished  loves  and  snow-piled  graves, 

I  sang  a  wind-like  song  that  stole 

From  the  drear  waste  of  memory's  waves. 

The  curtains  o'er  the  wuadows  fell ; 

The  clock  ticked  softly  on  the  wall ; 
The  firehght  glowed  ;  but,  in  my  heart, 

What  drifting  snows  enveloped  all ! 

Still  deeper  grew  the  shadows'  play ; 
The  wind  blew  wilder  from  the  sea  ; 


134  THE  EVENING  ANGEL. 

When  a  -warm  hand  was  laid  in  mine, 
And  lo !  an  Angel  watched  with  me  ! 

A  murmuring  music  filled  the  room  ; 

The  air  grew  sweet  with  spring-time  flowers ; 
The  clock  ticked  softer  on  the  wall, 

As  loth  to  count  Immortal  hours. 

No  word  the  Angel  spoke,  hut  love 

So  tender-true  was  in  his  smile, 
And  on  his  brow  such  perfect  peace. 

That  I,  who  sighed  and  wept  erewhile. 

Grew  strong  and  tranquil  in  his  glance ; 

It  ^A•as  no  atmosphere  for  tears  ; 
And,  from  liis  radiance,  golden  gleams 

Illumined  past  and  coming  years. 

I  did  not  breathe  a  single  prayer  ; 

I  did  not  ask  for  love  or  joy  ; 
Eut  all  my  quiet  heart  was  full 

Of  ti-ust  and  faith  without  alloy. 


Now  sank  the  snowy  evening  down 
To  midnight  gloom  without  a  star. 


THE  EVENING  ANGEL.  135 

And  winds,  wild  moaning  from  the  sea, 
Swept  inward  o'er  the  hai-bor  bar. 

But  neither  night  nor  wailing  wind 
Could  stir  my  soul's  celestial  calm  ; 

The  Angel's  holy  peace  was  mine. 

And  memory's  waves  Avere  waves  of  balm  ! 


136       THE  PRISONER'S  RELEASE. 


THE   PRISONER'S   RELEASE. 

"  Among  those  who  were  thrown  into  the  dungeons  of  Ven- 
ice was  a  young  girl  from  the  countrj',  scarcely  sixteen,  who 
did  not  live  to  be  put  to  the  torture,  but  was  found  dead  upon 
the  floor  of  her  cell."  —  liecovds  of  the  Inquisition. 

T  O,  in  the  east  the  wan  moon  dimbs 
Above  the  mellow  minster  chimes, 
And  wafted  peal  and  light  of  stars 
Come  faintly  through  my  prison-bars. 
I  cannot  hear  the  dripping  oar, 
Nor  boatman's  call  from  off  the  shore, 
Only,  flooding  the  beach  below, 
I  mark  the  sea-waves  come  and  go ; 
And  listen  !     From  my  dungeon-tower 
The  clock  tolls  out  the  midnight  hour. 
Oh,  tliat  my  latest  day  were  done. 
And  I  the  evening  peace  had  won  ! 

God  of  mercy !  pity  me  ! 

Take  me  quickly  up  to  Thee  ! 

In  dreams  I  've  lived  my  childhood  o'er 
Since  last  the  jailer  shut  the  door  ; 


THE  PRISONER'S  RELEASE.       13T 

Along  the  loftj  Apennines 

I  saw  again  the  dusky  pines, 

And  heard  the  rush  of  snow-fed  streams, 

And  caught  the  torrent's  silver  gleams. 

From  rock  to  rock  the  chamois  sprung ; 

High  in  the  blue  the  eagle  hung  ; 

And  I  felt  the  sweet  wind  over  me  blow 

From  vales  where  the  orange  and  jasmine  grow ; 

But  dearer  than  hill  or  stream  or  tree. 

Voices  I  loved  were  calling  me  ! 

I  woke.     The  waning  moon  had  risen, 

And  dimly  shone  athwart  the  prison ; 

My  hair  was  damp  with  dungeon  dew, 

A  chill  breath  crept  the  grating  through. 

And  on  my  brain  a  weight  was  prest 

And  my  heart  beat  slow  in  my  aching  breast,  — 

Faint  and  slow  as  the  waves  that  fall 

With  the  ebbing  tide  below  the  wall. 

Jesus !  Lord !  I  cry  to  Thee  ! 

By  Thy  woes,  deliver  me  ! 

Hark  !     The  chimes  die  soft  aw^ay, 
And  soon  will  dawn  another  day ; 
Yet  ere  for  watching  eyes  it  shine 
There  will  be  darkness  over  mine, 
And  I  shall  sleep  on  the  stony  floor 


138       THE  PRISONER'S  RELEASE. 

The  sleep  that  never  -will  waken  more  ! 
More  black  and  chill  the  dungeon  grows ; 
Unheard,  beneath,  the  sea-wave  flows  ; 
And  famter,  slower,  comes  my  breath,  — 
Can  it  be  dying  ?    Can  it  be  death  ? 
No  !     It  is  life  !  for  the  angels  lean 
Out  of  heaven  to  woo  me  there ! 
And  listen  !     What  do  those  voices  mean, 
Filling  with  music  all  the  air  ? 
Now  in  chorus  they  swell  and  rise, 
Floating  up  to  the  ravished  skies  ; 
And  now  they  warble  so  near,  so  near. 
They  bear  me  away  to  the  blessed  sphere ! 

God  of  love  !  O  welcome  me  ! 

Now  I  come,  —  I  come  to  Thee  ! 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD.  130 


WHEN   I   AM   DEAD. 

T^HEN  I  am  dead,  0  !  let  it  be, 

Jesus  !  for  blessed  rest  in  Thee ! 
Then,  though  my  ear  had  never  known 
The  rapture  of  a  loving  tone. 
Nor  tender  kisses  prest  my  brow 
When  heart  to  heart  gave  hohest  vow, 
Nor  fame's  bewildering  music  stole 
Like  a  sweet  fever  through  my  soul,  — 
I  shall  lie  down  as  kings  do  he, 
In  royal  state  and  majesty  ; 
Nor  cedar  need,  nor  purple  fold, 
Nor  sculptured  stone,  nor  fretted  gold, 
But  find  my  silent  chamber  there 
Than  fairest  couch  of  earth  more  fair, 
For  Thou,  the  King  of  kings,  shalt  spread 
The  pillow  for  my  weary  head. 

And  whether,  where  I  rest  alone. 
Come  foes  to  scorn  or  friends  to  moan. 


140  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD. 

I  shall  not  heed  them,  —  hid  in  joj, 
Nor  friend  can  give,  nor  foe  alloy  ; 
But  peaceful  sleep,  as  children  slumber 
Whose  mother's  thoughts  the  minutes  number, 
For  Thou,  the  Lord,  with  love  divine 
Shalt  watch  beside  that  grave  of  mine. 


7 


A  Nineteenth  Century  Poetess 

The  death  of  Edna  Dean  Proctor,  In  her 
ninety-fifth  year,  recalls  the  golden  period 
of  our  New  England  women  minor  poetp, 
which  blossomed  in  the  mld-nlneteenth 
century  under  the  inspiration  of  Emerson, 
Longfellow  and  WTilttler.  Miss  Proctor's 
first  and  most  noteworthy  volume  of  poems 
was  published  In  1800,  but  her  verses  had 
already  attracted  some  attention  in  the 
periodicals  of  the  time.  She  belonged  to 
the  epoch  of  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen,  Lucy 
Larcom  and  Nora  Perry,  and  almost  to 
that  of  Frances  Osgood.  All  these  she  had 
long  out-lived.  Her  poetry,  of  pleasing 
nnd  formal  character,  was  strongly  marked 
by  the  didactic  tendency  of  the  period ;  it 
exhorted  to  hopefulness  and  to  Intellectual 
serenity,  and  is  well  represented  by  one 
of  Its  most  popular  examples,  which  was 
entitled  "Take  Heart." 
All   day  the  stormy  wind  has  blown  1.      0 

Prom  off  the  dark  and  rainy  sea;  ft  Jl'  \^ 
No  bird  has  past  the  window  flown,   \^^ 
The   only   song  has   been  the  moan      \ 

The  wind  made  In  the  willow-tree. 

This  la  the  summer's  burial  time: 

She    died    when    dropped    the    earliest    leaves; 
And,    cold    upon   her    rosy    prime    . 
Fell  direful   autumn's   frosty  rime; 

Yet  1  am  not  as  one  who  grieves — 

For  well  I  know  o'er  sunny  seas 

The  bluebird  waits  for  April  sklea; 
And  at  the   roots   of  forest  trees 
The  mayflowers  sleep  in  fragrant  case. 
And   violets   hide  their   azure   eyes. 

O  thou,   by  winds  of  grief  o'erblown 

Beside   some  summer's  golden   bier — 
Take   h»art!   ihy   birds   are   only   flown. 
Thy  blossoms   sleeping,    tearful    sown. 
To  greet  thee   in  the  immortal  year! 

Few  of  our  poets,  it  Is  needless 
to  say,  write  in  this  vein  now.  Mise 
Proctor  was  exactly  the  contemporar-. 
of  Emily  Dickinson,  but  her  ver 
was  worlds  away  from  that  of  the  rest- 
less, disturbed  and  disturbing  genius  of 
Amherst.  Emily  Dickinson  had  no  such 
popularity  in  her  day  as  Miss  Proctor, 
Miss  Larc^m  or  Mrs.  Akers  Allen  eaijoyed, 
but  she  will  be  longer  remembered  than 
any  of  them.  Miss  Proctor  wrote  much  be- 
sides poetry,  and  her  books  and  press 
writings  generally  bespoke  the  same  benev- 
olence of  heart  that  breathed  in  her  verse. 


nWA  DEAN  PROCTOR  DEAD 


W«i, 


Was 
She 


Edna  Dean  Proctor,  poet  oi  .^  ^  ration 
ago,  whose  circle  of  friends  included  Henry 
Ward  Beecher  and  John  Greenleaf  AVhit- 
tler,  died  in  her  apartments  at  the  Kendall 
Hotel  in  Framingham  yesterday  in  her 
ninety-fifth  year.  She  had  never  regained 
her  strength  after  breaking  her  ankle  last 
winter  in  Atlantic  City. 

Edna  Dean  Proctor  was  born  in  Hennl- 
ker,  N.  H.,  Sept.  IS,  1829,  on  a  hill  oA'er- 
looking  the  Contoocook  River.  Although 
after  the  years  of  her  youth  her  life  took 
her  far  from  New  Hampshire,  she  consid- 
ered that  State  her  own.  In  1899  she  wrote 
on  the  occasion  of  its  first  Old  Home  Week, 
"The  Hills  Are  Home." 

After  studying  at  Concord,  IST.  H.,  and 
at  South  Hadley,  Miss  Proctor  taught 
drawing  and  music  at  "Woodstock,  Conn., 
and  then  became  governess  in  the  family 
of  Henry  C.  Bowen,  at  Brooklyn.  Sub- 
sequently she  travelled  widely  in  Europe 
and  was  one  of  the  first  American  women 
to. make  an  extensive  trip  in  Russia.  As 
a  result  of  her  study  of  the  people,  she 
wrote  her  "Russian  Journej-,"  which 
prophesied  the  vast  transformation  of  that 
country.  In  later  years  she  made  her 
home  in  Framingham,  but  spent  much  time 
in  Atlantic  City  and  Washington. 

While  in  Brooklyn  she  became  acquaint- 
ed with  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  She  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  the  most  striking 
excerpts  from  his  sermons  under  the 
title  "Life  Thoughts,"  and  because  another 
similar  book  by  another  author  soon  ap- 
peared, apparently  with  Beecher's  approval, 
she  severely  rebuked  the  pastor.  His  ex- 
planation proving  satisfactory  to  her,  she 
forgave  him  and  at  his  request  wrote  him 
a  letter  to  that  effect.  As  an  indirect  re- 
sult of  her  action,  her  name  was  wrought 
into  the  Beecher-Tilton  case  by  Francis  D. 
Moulton.  Subsequently  she  sued  Moulton 
for  libel  for  $100,000.  Winning  complete 
vindication,  she  settled  with  the  defendant 
for  the  amount  merely  which  the  litigation 
cost  her.  ^ 

Her  first  book  of  poems  was  publisned  In 
ISO",  and  before  that  she  had  already  writ- 
ten verse  which  attracted  the  attention  of 

jwhittier;  yet  in  1918  she.  had  retold  in 
I  stirring  poetry  an  incident,  of  the  retreat 
j.toward  the  Marne,  and  continued  to  pro- 
il  duce  energetic  lines  almost  to  the  end  of 
j  her  life. 

The  grown  people  of  today,  who  were 
the  school  children  of  Miss  Proctor's  time, 
remembered  especially  her  patriotic  songs 
and  her  poems  which  appear  in  their  school 
books.  Invariably  championing  the  cause 
of  freedom  and  democracy,  she  wrote  with 
particular  zest  of  the  Indians,  of  •  patriot- 
ism, of  a  new  Russia  and  of  "The  Glory  of 
Toil,''  as  she  entitled  her  latest  book  of 
poems,  published  only  recently. 

Surviving  Miss  Proctor,  besides  a  niece, 
Mrs.  Fitts,  are  two  nephews,  David  G. 
Proctor,  song  writer  for  Weber  &  Fields, 
New  York,  and  Prescott  Coolidge  of  Berke- 
ley, Calif.  :  and  two  other  nieces,  Mrs.  Grace 
_,  W.  Van  Praag  of  Framingham,  and  Mrs. 
I  Julia  White  of  Peoria,  111. 


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